


political animals

by MaidenMotherCrone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Consensual Infidelity, Dom/sub Undertones, Don't @ Me, F/F, F/M, Infidelity, Inspired by every political television under the sun, M/M, Machiavellian Grandma Potter, Machiavellian scheming, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Unreliable Narrator, Wizarding Culture (Harry Potter), Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-08-03 07:23:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16321733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaidenMotherCrone/pseuds/MaidenMotherCrone
Summary: “I may not know Muggle composers, but I do know Muggle philosophers: ‘Man is by nature a political animal’,” Harry hissed softly. “But, I have no interest in being an animal. I want to be a monster, and I think you know the game far better than the way you’re playing.”Harry’s eyes widened, and his breath was strangled in his lungs. He waited for Riddle to respond, wondering if he’d played his hand too early.But, then, Riddle tilted his head, and a terrifying smile crossed his face.“Mr. Potter, you are not what I expected,” Riddle said.“Good. Do I have your attention, Mr. Riddle?” Harry asked.Riddle’s smile grew wider. It was all teeth.“Yes.”





	1. Chapter One

_~~*~~_

_“The road to power is paved with hypocrisy, and casualties._

_Never regret.”_

_~~*~~_

He emerged from the green flames in a swirl of velvet and gold, the flames trailing after him on the hem of his cape like emerald adornments. Briskly, he shook off the flames and cleared his throat as he cut through the crowd, a mounting amount of irritation already washing over him. They moved mindlessly, worker drones that went about their daily bureaucracy handling nonsense like the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts and the like.

Huffing under his breath, he twisted out of the way of a huddled crowd of visitors that couldn't be older than primary schoolers, led by a woman in plum-colored robes. Most likely a group of visiting half-blood and pureblood children; primary schooling for wizarding children was considered _en vogue_ , at the moment, as Euphemia had described it with a heavy scowl, all the while muttering about the dying art of private homeschooling.

He caught the tale-end of the woman’s words: “...established in 1707, after the disbandment of the Wizards’ Council.”

Ducking around the group, he ignored the upturned, dazed stares, looking upward as well. He would never grow tired of the peacock blue ceiling, the golden symbols moving across it, slowly, as if wading through water.

As he reached the very end of the Atrium, he arrived at a set of golden gates, next to which was a security stand.

Eric Munch nodded, a smile on his face.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter,” Eric Munch said.

"Good morning," Harry Potter responded as he stood at the end of the grand Atrium of the Ministry of Magic.

Each time he arrived, he was breathless again, like it was his very first day. The black onyx walls gleamed, and bounced light rather than swallowing it whole. It was cavernous and thunderous and great, like the gods themselves had laid each and every brick, instilling something in the holy halls. Harry's lips curled into a terribly proud smile as he approached the very monument that had made Harry want to belong in that building so much.

Harry turned around to look behind him.

The Fountain of Magical Brethren was grand and golden, dwarfing them all. The beautiful golden witch stood in the middle of an enormous circular pool, surrounded by a centaur, a goblin, and house-elf that all stared up at her adoringly. Just across the Atrium was a large, noble wizard, his wand held aloft, shooting water through the air that arched gracefully into the pool.

Harry took a deep breath and turned back around, breathing in the air. He smelled _power._  

* * *

 Ginny Weasley came to a stop just outside of the offices. She fiddled with her robes. They were brand new and felt like it, too stiff against her skin, and crisply ironed. Her mum had insisted along with the overly-filling breakfast and the homemade packed lunch. Her father had snuck her a few Knuts with a wink.

It was her first day, after all.

“You daft girl. Are you just going to hover by the door?”

Ginny jumped. Sharp barbs leaped in her mind, but when she turned to the woman that had spoken, she swallowed and took a step back, eyes wide. She opened her mouth, searching for the words, but Rita Skeeter had already rolled her eyes and sashayed in. The door swung closed in Ginny's face, and she only just caught it, scurrying into the office.

At nine in the morning, there was already utter chaos.

People were running back and forth, throwing charms at the stacks of newspapers that hadn't been delivered just yet, changing the front page, apparently. Others were furiously writing letters to send off, probably to confirm a few sources. There was one witch who was hunched over in the fireplace, rattling off questions to someone or the other. Ginny took it all in and continued forward with the slightest limp. She paused, looking around the room, but none of the doors were labeled. People were running around, just narrowly avoiding her.

“Can anyone tell me where the Editor’s office is?” Ginny shouted into the din.

"There!" Three voices had shouted, fingers pointed at a single corner office. Not a single one of them had looked up from whatever they were doing.

Ginny continued towards the office. She didn’t hesitate again, not after a dressing down from _Rita Skeeter_ , herself. She knocked sharp and brisk.

“If this isn’t my nine o’ clock appointment, fuck off!”

Ginny took that as permission to open the door. She walked inside and raised an eyebrow. In sharp juxtaposition to the chaos preoccupying the office at large, Barnabus Cuffe's office was disturbingly orderly. He was a slightly overweight man with a thicket of brown hair and was almost handsome if it weren't for the fact that he was nearly the same age as Ginny's fucking father. He looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

“You Ginevra Weasley?”

“That’s the name my mum gave me. But, call me Ginny,” she said, falling down into the seat opposite Cuffe. He didn’t look amused at her cutesy little joke. Ginny wasn’t smiling.

“Weasley, then,” Cuffe said, gruffly. He reached into his desk, slapping a file in front of her. He thumbed it open and Ginny caught a glimpse of the parchment samples that she’d sent in months ago, all marked up with red ink. “You’re a good writer, Weasley. That’s clear.”

“Is it? There’s more red on that parchment than black,” Ginny pointed out, leaning back in her seat.

Cuffe hummed, looking at her with a condescending amusement that made her grind her teeth.

“I’m an editor, Weasley. It’s what I do.”

“Okay,” Ginny said. She stared at him, daring him to go on.

“Your letters of recommendation were compelling as well. But, we both know that. You’ve got the job,” Cuffe said. He regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Both of your pieces were about Quidditch. You’re aiming for the sports vertical?”

“It’s what I know, sir. I live and breathe Quidditch.”

“But, can’t play?”

“Not anymore. I have two busted kneecaps that weren’t Healed for a little too long,” Ginny said coldly. She could see Cuffe’s interest; he was waiting for her to continue on. She didn’t. “Editor Cuffe, I could do really great work on the sports vertical. Even with my busted kneecaps, I tried out for the Holyhead Harpies and nearly made it on their reserve. I _know_ the sport like I know my own hand.”

Cuffe didn’t look as impressed as she wanted him to.

“I get that, but my two sports writer positions are filled up and Cormac McLaggen, for all his arrogance, is very good at what he does,” Cuffe said firmly. “I made it clear what this position was for.”

“I _know_ , but—”

“You’re lucky that your writing is so good, Weasley,” Cuffe warned. “I’m putting you on the politics vertical. Don’t argue with me. Now, go report to your superior.”

Cuffe scrawled out a name on a slip of parchment and handed it to her. Ginny felt her heart fall into her stomach. She had wanted to work at the Prophet so badly, but _specifically,_ for the sports vertical. She had even passed on that Quidditch Weekly offer because the Prophet seemed more prestigious to her parents. Now, she was stuck on _politics_ with—

“Are you serious?” Ginny asked.

“As a heart attack. Go. You’re using my air.”

Ginny sighed and stood to her feet, nodding as she left the room. She could feel Cuffe watching, looking at her for even the slightest limp. Ginny couldn’t help the aborted movement she made, but she stood as tall as possible and strode forward. Her knees would hate her later, but she wouldn’t look _weak_ in front of Cuffe.

Ginny was barely out of the office when a tall, broad-shouldered man towered over her with a smirk.

“Cormac. McLaggen. And who are you, beautiful?”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “I was two years behind you at Hogwarts. We were on the same _Quidditch_ team for a bit."

McLaggen blinked. “Ginny Weasley? Oh! You look...different.”

Ginny gave a fake smile. She wanted to send his bogeys flying from his nose with bat wings.

“Thanks,” she simpered with a sneer before she stalked away. She followed the shrill voice to the other corner office. It made sense that Ginny’s boss would also have a corner office.

Ginny knocked once. The shriek cut off immediately and there was a scuffle.

Then, “Come in.”

Ginny walked in just as the fireplace behind Rita Skeeter was turning from green to a normal merry orange. The woman in question looked just as unpleasant as she had outside, her pointy upturned nose turned up even farther, and her bright red pout pursed.

“And you are?”

“Your new subordinate. Ginny Weasley.”

Rita hummed. “Oh, yes. And the girl that got in my way this morning. Perfect.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I don’t care,” Rita dismissed. She didn’t invite Ginny to sit down, so she didn’t. “Well, I’m Rita Skeeter, special correspondent, and I’m on the politics vertical. You’re my new pet. How does that sound?”

“Sounds rather boring. Politics. I wanted to write sports.”

Rita’s red painted lips curled into an intrigued smile. She leaned forward, eyes dragging up and down Ginny’s body. She didn’t look impressed by what she saw.

“You have no idea, do you?” Rita drawled. She leaned back in her overstuffed white chair, absently stirring at her sugarless tea. She pulled it to her lips and took a sip. The imprint of her lips against the white porcelain looked dangerous.

Ginny straightened. “I can write. I know—”

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” Rita sighed, shaking her head. “Cuffe wouldn’t have hired you otherwise. But, all you _can_ do is write. If you don’t know how to report, you’re useless.”

_Useless._

Ginny felt a fire burn through her center.

“I can report,” she barked.

Rita rolled her eyes. “Do you know what’s happening in the Ministry right now?”

“Yes,” Ginny said. She didn’t sound very convincing.

"Rufus Scrimgeour is the Minister-elect. There is a great shift in power. The direction of the Ministry is changing and all you care about are... _sports_ ," Rita said, spitting the word like it was as poison as her quill. She tossed her upturned nose in the air and waved her hand. "If you've nothing—"

“I know who’s replacing Scrimgeour as Head Auror,” Ginny said firmly. “It’s James Potter.”

Rita paused, leaning forward. She glanced down at a paper on her desk. Ginny briefly saw that it look like a memo of some sort, and the official Ministry seal was at the top. Rita quickly tucked it out of view.

“Source?”

"I've got a brother in the department. Directly under Potter. Is that good enough reporting?" Ginny spat. Her eyes narrowed as she could practically see the wheels turning in Rita's head. Rita leaned back in her seat. She threw down the paper she had been hiding, pointing at the top of the memo. Ginny's eyes widened at the official internal memo that proved her reporting correct.

“It’s a start.”

* * *

 

James looked around the bare office, cleaned of anything that marked it as his predecessor’s. There weren’t any medals or awards up—not yet, anyway—, no front pages of the Prophet lauding another success out of the Auror Office, not even a single one of the books that had lined the bookshelf tucked in the corner. It felt _naked_ and uncomfortable.

And it was all _his_.

“Congrats, Prongs.”

James Potter turned around, grinning lazily at Sirius. Sirius strode forward without a hint of hesitation, clapping James on the back. James hugged him back, laughing.

“I didn’t know…” James hesitated and trailed off. “It didn’t seem real.”

“What do you mean, mate?” Sirius asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I mean...I knew it was going to happen. Bones said I was the most logical choice. Scrimgeour personally selected me. But, I didn’t believe it. Not even this morning. Lily had to yell at me to not be late for my first day as the _boss_ ,” James laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sirius hummed. “Just means we’re not kids, anymore.”

"I don't think I can be a kid when I _have_ a kid,” James pointed out.

“Speaking of your kid, have you heard from him?” Sirius asked. He watched James’ expression of elation morph into something more complicated. James sighed.

“Harry is busy. And I’m sure that after today’s memo, _he_ won’t be pleased. Did you see?” James asked. Sirius scoffed, nodding as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Yeah, I saw. All that talk of—”

The door flew open and Sirius shut his mouth immediately, as alert as his other form would be. He relaxed somewhat as Ronald Weasley flew into the room, hand held out. James grabbed it, giving it a hearty shake as he stared at his son’s childhood best friend.

“Congratulations, sir!” Ron said firmly. “Head Auror. I feel like coming into this office means I’ll be fired.”

"Come now, Weasley. I'm still your old squad leader," James said with a smile even though that wasn't really true. Not anymore. He really and truly was the Head Auror. "How's my son, by the way?"

"Harry? Haven't seen him this week. Election week is always busy. We're meant to get lunch—him, Hermione, and me—but, he's always so busy. Wouldn't be surprised if he canceled on us," Ron said. James found it a little sad that Ron didn't even seem sad about it. It was like he expected his best friend from Hogwarts to just not have time for him anymore.

He made a mental note to speak to Harry himself, next time he got his son to come to dinner.

“Was there something you needed, Weasley?” Sirius asked, not unkindly.

“Oh, right. I have these forms from the squad leaders. You just need to sign off. And your secretary—Nancy, was it?—she said that there’s an Advocate clerk out here to see you,” Ron said, arms folded over his chest. James groaned. That wasn’t one of the responsibilities he was looking forward to.

The Advocate Office had always been a pain in the arse. It was relatively new, having been created only within the last decade or so. It was supposedly meant to ensure a fair trial for criminals. James didn’t really understand the need for it. Veritaserum had always gotten the job done, fair and square. But, even Lily seemed to be pleased with the new office and the Advocate-in-Charge, Mary Cattermole. James reckoned the woman had been a Hufflepuff when he was at Hogwarts, with her, but one could mistake her for a Slytherin, nowadays.

“Who is it, then?” Sirius asked with a similar disdain. He had no love for the Advocate Office either.

Ron’s face twisted in distaste. “The Advocate-in-Charge’s clerk himself.”

“Send him in, then,” James said with a regal wave. Sirius raised an eyebrow as Ron did as he was told, leaving the room. James grinned, sheepishly. “Might as well get it over with. The arrogant little brat won’t like waiting.”

“How unprofessional, Head Auror.”

“I didn’t invite you in, Zabini,” James said coldly, as he looked over at the man that hovered in the doorway. He was only Harry’s age, but it seemed that they had the same amount of ambition, even with Harry having been a Gryffindor.

Blaise Zabini was handsome and knew it, something that never failed to frustrate James. The man had done extraordinarily well on his NEWTs; so well, that Scrimgeour had requested his resume himself. But, Zabini had _declined_ , choosing to apply for the Advocate Office instead. Scrimgeour had never forgiven that slight. The Auror Academy was competitive. James hadn't forgiven it either, especially when the spot that Zabini had turned down had been Harry's spot if he had ever even wanted it.

“Yes, but I have ears,” Zabini said coolly. “You’re being called to testify, by the way. Advocate Cattermole will see you in court in four hours.”

James balked. “What do you mean? Which case?”

“Case number 734562. You _were_ the arresting Auror, Head Auror Potter. She’ll see you then. If you’re late, you won’t have any evidence to convict.”

Sirius’ eyes widened. “The one with the little girl, James.”

James remembered that case. Livius Briggs, 43. A half-blood blood supremacist, if one could believe. Nymphadora Tonks, an Auror on Sirius' team and also Sirius' cousin, called it internal racism. Lily agreed with that notion when she'd heard Sirius and James discussing the case. Briggs had also thought of himself as a bit of a scientist. James' blood boiled at the thought of what Briggs had attempted to do.

“He kidnapped a little Muggle girl! For experimentation!” James barked. “You can’t be thinking of letting him off.”

“I’m not thinking of anything, Head Auror Potter. I’m doing my job. You do yours,” Zabini said seriously. He dropped the file on the desk and walked out with another word. James groaned, looking between the upcoming case file and all of the other cases he had to sign off.

“Well…” Sirius said. “You wanted to be Head Auror.”

“Bugger off.”

* * *

It was chaos.

Interns were bent over desks, all peering down at one newspaper. An Advocate's clerk stumbled through the room with a load of case flies clutched to their chest, talking in hushed whispers to another one of the Goblin Liaisons. A woman that Harry knew to work with Hermione in the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was speaking in hushed tones to Penelope Clearwater, Harry's assistant. The woman didn't work in House-Elf Relocation with Hermione. Probably in Dragon Research, Harry thought. He could tell by the scars.

“What...is going on here?” Harry asked slowly as he stepped into the inner sanctum of the International Magical Office of Law.

Some of the interns jerked away from the one paper. Penelope looked at him, nervous and worried. She really was a strangely nervous woman. She hadn’t been when Harry’d first met her. Harry had gotten the impression that the woman resented him, at first, for practically jumping ahead of her in the ranks right out from Hogwarts.

But, once she saw what he could do, that resentment had gone away.

“Don’t you have bylaws to be researching?” Harry barked at one intern. She jumped and scurried back to her desk from where she’s hovering by the other intern. They were all freshly turned 16 and 17, getting ready to head into their last year of Hogwarts. Harry had been far more ambitious at their age.

Euphemia’s voice whispered in his ear, _That’s because you had me._

“Penelope,” Harry called. “Can you tell me my schedule today? And his? Also, have they sent out a memo with the time for the swearing-in?”

Penelope was at his side in a second, looking around nervously.

"He's canceled all his meetings today," Penelope said, quietly, handing Harry the Head of the International Magical Office of Law's schedule. Harry raised an eyebrow at the parchment that had been scrubbed clean. "You have a lunch today with Miss Granger and Mister Weasley scheduled around one, but you might want to cancel it."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I've canceled with them for the past two times because of _his_ moods. I don’t want to cancel again.”

Penelope pursed her lips, shaking her head.

“Have you seen the paper today, Harry?”

Harry straightened at the question. Penelope stared back at him, too solemn for it to be any good. Slowly, he held out his hand. Penelope spun around, snatching the Daily Prophet from the interns’ desk. The wix grumbled, shouting their protests, before Harry looked at them, silencing them with a glance. The other interns averted their gazes. Harry cleared his throat and slowly looked down at the headline.

His breath caught.

“Has he seen this?” Harry asked quietly.

Penelope nodded. “Yes.”

Harry swallowed. He pressed the paper back into Penelope’s fluttering hands, and took a step forward, nodding to himself.

“Clear the rest of the day. No owls, no meetings. Do not interrupt us, please,” Harry said quietly. He pressed past Penelope, walking up to the great oak door with purpose. He stopped to breathe, taking a centering breath, pushing down the fury.

He didn't knock, instead, throwing the door open and shutting it just as fast.

Harry gave a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. “Mr. Riddle.”

* * *

_To Mr. Rodolphus Lestrange,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. It has been some time since we were last in correspondence, and I do admit that my reaching out to you is a characteristic of my ulterior motives._

_As a historian, my focus on our noble pureblood history is culminating in a proposed book project. The Sacred Twenty-Eight is a text that depicts our lineage but gives no insight on how our families fare today in this modern time. I would ask if you were available to meet for drinks and provide me with an interview. I would love to have a nuanced view of the noble House of—_

“Mistress Bella.”

Bellatrix Black-Riddle looked up from her letter, cursing to herself when she pressed her quill down too hard and ink splashes messily on the paper. Very well, she decided. It was only a draft of her letter to the head of House Lestrange. Even still, Bellatrix fixed a narrowed eye gaze on her house elf. Pilley didn’t tremble under Bellatrix’s black stare. She’d been with Bellatrix since she was a child and had been promptly given to her on her wedding day. Pilley had _never_ been frightened of her Mistress

“Mistress Bella, Mistress’ guests is arriving,” Pilley declared.

Bellatrix huffed and stood to her feet, smoothing the skirts of her ornate robes. “Very well. I hope you’ve brought them to the drawing room.”

“Of course, Mistress. Pilley made Toobey brings them in,” Pilley said.

“Good,” Bellatrix said. She led from her study, quite regally, her chin upturned as she descended the steps of Riddle manor and came upon the drawing room.

Narcissa stood by the large radius windows that took up nearly the entire back wall, filtering the parlor with the natural green-tinged lighting as the sunbeams reflected off the perfect garden that sprawled across the backyard. She looked fine in her cream-colored robes, untouchable as freshly fallen snow. Her son was sprawled at the tea table, his legs thrown wide, looking the picture of the dispassionate socialite youth. His companion had taken a leaflet out of Cissy's book, draped in purple velvet, but with the same body-hugging cut. Pansy, however, had chosen to expose her ample cleavage, enticing and lovely.

“You’re late, sister,” Narcissa drawled, pulling away from the window. Even still, her lips pulled into a red smile, her teeth gleaming from Bleaching Charms.

“Did you ever _think_ that you’re perhaps... _early_ , Cissy?” Bellatrix drawled. She hid her smile of pleasure at the sneer that twisted Narcissa’s pretty face at her childhood moniker. Narcissa had never grown out of it or her distaste for it.

Bellatrix sat down at the tea table first, looking between her nephew and his constant companion.

“Shouldn’t you have a job by now, boy?” Bellatrix asked nastily.

Draco’s cheeks colored. “I’m learning the business from father!” he protested.

“Don’t you mean from mother?” Bellatrix countered. “Your father never had much brains.”

“Don’t talk about my—”

“Tone, Draco, dear,” Narcissa said calmly. She crossed the room and settled at the table, keeping a narrow-eyed gaze on her eldest sister. “And you would do well to perhaps pull back on the insults directed at my dearest husband.”

“Of course, _Cissy_.”

Narcissa’s expression twitched again. Bellatrix waved her wand, concentrating as best as she could. She watched the spread take shape, the teapot going around and pouring in everyone’s cups, scones spreading over tiny saucers. It was never as smooth as Narcissa’s spells, but it was satisfactory.

“How is your research going, Madame Black-Riddle?” Pansy asked. “Draco was telling me about it; just a bit really. I just know that it’s about the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

Bellatrix nodded, attempting to hide her distaste. "I have been a scholar of magical history for quite a long time. When my dueling practice had to be...put on hiatus, I thought it prudent to take it up again. The Sacred Twenty-Eight is no longer Twenty-Eight, and I'd like to record a more modern nuanced history of the noblest houses."

Pansy looked delighted at the very thought. “Some would say Cantanekerus Nott’s work is definitive.”

“Some would be wrong,” Bellatrix said smoothly.

Draco was squirming in his seat, no longer in his dispassionate tableau. He looked anxious.

“Mother—” Draco began and then fell silent again.

Narcissa hummed, holding up a hand. “Bella, my dear, has your husband heard the news?”

“News?” Bellatrix asked coolly. “What news?”

Narcissa had the audacity to look apologetic. “Well...Pilley?” she called, summoning Bellatrix’s house elf like it was _hers._

“Yes, Mistress Narcissa?” Pilley asked from the corner of the room.

“Today’s _Daily Prophet,_ please,” Narcissa said politely.

Pilley nodded and with a pop, the newspaper settled in Bellatrix’s lap. Bellatrix looked at the headline and froze.

Softly, she whispered, “ _Shit_.”

* * *

 

**TWO YEARS EARLIER**

_Harry noticed him immediately._

_It was hard not to. Tom Riddle drew people like a moth to a flame. Everywhere he went, he was surrounded by a sea of laughing men and women. He did not smile often, looking utterly bored with the way they simpered after him, attempting to wheedle out tales of his exploits abroad, of his experiences with other Ministries on the continent, of anything, really, but he was terribly tight-lipped. Anyone that knew him enough to stand right beside him and had the right to call him by name radiated with pride._

_“Lucius Malfoy looks_ particularly _snake-like today,” James whispered in Lily’s ear. Lily laughed quietly, smothering her laughter in her palm. “Did you see his walking stick? Is he even old enough for a walking stick?”_

_“I think it’s a fashion statement,” Harry said absently._

_Lily snorted, and she rolled her eyes when Alecto Carrow shot her a look of scandalized disdain._

_“It’s not a very good one. How gauche,” Lily muttered._

_“How_ Malfoy _,” James corrected._

_James wasn’t wrong. Lucius Malfoy stood right next to Tom Riddle, his long blonde ponytail looking nearly white. Draco was the spitting image of the man._

_Harry decided then and there that though he didn’t know the man, he didn’t like Lucius on principle._

_Draco Malfoy was a git._

_“Harry? Harry, are you alright, love?”_

_Harry jumped. He hadn’t realized that he had stood up. Lily frowned up at him, worried._

_“Yeah, I’m fine, Mum,” Harry said distractedly. “I look nice in these robes, don’t I? Euphie picked them out.”_

_“Your gran has expensive taste,” Lily said, her lips twisting in distaste at the mention of the elder Potter matriarch. Harry’s lips quirked into a smile. “But, you look lovely, Harry.”_

_Lily sounded like she almost meant it, like the sight of her son did not frighten her._

‘Make me enviable. Make me beautiful,’ _Harry had pleaded to his grandmother’s personal seamstress as she had taken his measurements. Euphemia had nodded in approval, her hazel eyes like flint._

‘Make him formidable,’ _she’d commanded._

_And so he was, in black, with long trumpet sleeves that fell to his knees, and tall black boots. The fabric was heavy and expensive, and Harry felt like an imposter in robes that would look far better on someone like Draco Malfoy or, even, Blaise Zabini. But, these robes were fitted perfectly for him, tucked to every dip and curve of his body, and Harry imagined that that was what frightened Lily more than anything else._

_“Thank you. I want to look good,” Harry said._

_James finished off his bruschetta with gusto. “Yeah, there are a lot of Ministry officials here. I’ve put in a good word for you with Scrimgeour, but he’s a firm disbeliever in nepotism. You’ll have to speak to him yourself,” James said. He clapped Harry on the shoulder, squeezing._

_Harry gave a tiny smile and nodded. He stood up, draining the rest of his champagne and set it down on the table. His gaze remained on Tom Riddle, stuck in the thick of it all. Harry straightened and took a step forward and then another, his destination in sight. The men were talking, not about anything important. Stupid small talk._

_Tom Riddle was silent._

_“Barty is thriving in the Department of Mysteries, isn’t he?”_

_“Yes, he is. He thought he would go into law enforcement, but under Tom’s careful mentorship, he decided—”_

_Harry cleared his throat as he stood before them. “Excuse me.” The conversation tapered off with mild curiosity, staring at him as if he were a very interesting insect. “Mr. Riddle, it would be an honor if you could give me a moment of your time.”_

_Some of the younger men startled as if shocked that Harry had even dared ask of such a thing._

_“And you are?” Tom Riddle asked._

_Harry lifted his chin, an easy smile spreading across his face. He ignored the unimpressed faces surrounding them—all gaunt, stodgy old men, fat and comfortable with their positions in life. Their eyes were glazed with complacency, and they were softened by opulence. Harry had been taught to overlook people like that._

_But, not Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle had cheekbones like knives and he wore aristocracy well, but it was all in his eyes. His burgundy eyes were alert and hungry, ambitious to a fault. His grandmother would say that Tom Riddle would make a boneyard of the world to get his heart’s desire._

_“I’m Harry Potter.”_

_Riddle still looked unimpressed. One of the other politicians didn’t._

_“James Potter’s boy?” he asked, leaning forward, his black mustache twitching. Harry turned to look at him fully—Bartemius Crouch Senior, his grandmother hissed in his ear. “He’s the son of James Potter.”_

_“And he is?” Riddle asked, still so disinterested._

_Harry bit his bottom lip, his enthusiasm faltering. The men around him were shifting, smothering their plummy laughter against clammy palms. Tittering gently into flutes of champagne, as Riddle constructed his humiliation._

_“He is an award—”_

_“Unimportant,” Harry said firmly. “Mr. Riddle, I’m a rising seventh year at Hogwarts. I’d like a word with you.”_

_Riddle took a slow sip of his red wine. He was the only one drinking wine._

_“Why?” he drawled. “I don’t find you all that interesting.”_

_The men did laugh then, even Crouch, loud and barking. It drew the attention of others. Harry could feel his parents’ eyes, steady on his back. His father was probably watching in confusion. Lily would probably whisper Harry’s intentions in James’ ear. Lily was sharp, and she knew all about the type of ambition that Euphemia Potter had whispered into her grandson’s ear when her son would have none of it._

_Harry cleared his throat._

_“You will.”_

_Their laughter tapered off. And Riddle drained his red glass, pressing it against Percy Weasley's hand as if the man was_ his _assistant. Weasley nearly dropped it but took it anyway. Riddle had straightened out of his disdainful slouch, and slowly, he offered his hand, giving a half bow. Harry swallowed once and took it._

_Riddle took a step forward, not letting go of Harry’s hand. The man was taller than Harry had originally thought—wraith-like except for his broad shoulders, and chiseled jaw. His hands were huge and his fingers long like a pianist’s; a pair of massive pale spider-like hands, one wrapped tight around Harry’s, squeezing the blood from it._

_“Can I interest you in a drink, Mr. Potter?” Riddle asked, finally dropping Harry’s hand. He offered his arm instead._

_“Er, no,” Harry coughed. “But, I’m...partial to the song that the orchestra is playing.”_

_Riddle looked like he was considering something, but only for a moment. He was terrifying to Harry. The man seemed to make his decisions in the space it took someone to blink, and each decision felt methodical and particular as if he had plotted out every possible path in the universe._

_"La Valse. You have impeccable taste, Mr. Potter," Riddle said. And then, he turned to the other men, giving the most charming smile that Harry had ever seen. "If you'll excuse me but, I believe I owe this young man a dance."_

_Hermione had been right—the man_ was _terribly handsome, in a horrible sort of way. Horrible because now that Harry recognized that, he would have to think over his words even more carefully than before unless he wanted to blurt something stupid out. Riddle was grabbing his hand again, leading him out onto the dance floor, slipping a hand onto Harry’s waist, perfectly, respectable, holding his other hand loosely._

_“I don’t know how to dance,” Harry admitted absently._

_Riddle stared down at him with amused disdain, as if he didn’t quite realize what he was doing there with Harry. “You might wish to start with placing your hand on my shoulder,” Riddle drawled. Harry scrambled to do just that. “I’ll lead. You follow. Keep up.”_

_Harry didn't think that Riddle meant only the dance. They slipped into a waltz, moving to the sounds of the orchestra, and it was easier than Harry thought, now that he didn't have to lead. Euphie had tried to make him learn because he spent so much time at Potter Manor, but James had spoken out against it when he saw how much Harry hated it. At that moment, Harry wished that he had just sucked it up and hadn't acted like a huge baby._

_“Now, is there a reason that you approached me, Mr. Potter?” Riddle asked._

_Harry's tongue felt swollen in his mouth as Riddle suddenly switched sides, his other hand pressing to the other side of Harry's waist, grabbing the opposite hand on the downbeat. They cut across the floor, falling in step with the other couples that danced and swirled across the gold-laced floors, all silk and taffeta robes and women dripping in pearls. They were a pair in black, dark shades in a world of gold. Harry had never felt so alone with a man._

_“I don’t know this piece. It sounds Muggle,” Harry blurted out. “Do you know it?”_

_Riddle hummed. “Does this bother you? That it is...a Muggle piece?”_

_“No. Of course not. My mother is a Muggleborn,” Harry said hurriedly._

_Riddle was staring at him again as if he were trying to figure out a challenging puzzle. And then, his interest began to wane._

_“It is from the operetta Moscow, Cheryomushki by the Muggle composer, Dmitri Shostakovich. It is the waltz,” Riddle said reluctantly. He sighed as he swirled Harry across the floor. Harry felt the man tense, and so he was ready for the switch of hands again. “Mr. Potter, I am not in the business of wasting time, not even during a night of what is meant to be considered leisure—”_

_“This is not leisure,” Harry said sharply. “I mentioned that I’m a rising seventh year. I intend to go into the Ministry after I graduate from Hogwarts. And I intend to work under you.”_

_Riddle gave a quiet laugh, deep and rich and mocking._

_“Do you, Mr. Potter?” Riddle drawled._

_Harry took a deep breath, looking down at his feet. The one time he looked at his feet, he nearly stumbled. When he looked up again, Riddle was waiting, nostrils slightly flared and eyes wide, but just so. He could only tell because he was so close._

_“Yes. You are going to be a powerful man one day, Mr. Riddle,” Harry said quietly. “And I’m not saying that to flatter you. You are the youngest Head of a subdivision in decades. You have connections to both the old world of pureblood tradition and the burgeoning one of Muggleborn innovation. And better yet, you are a_ half-blood _. You are made to be a success story, Mr. Riddle, and I want to be there for the ride.”_

_Riddle turned Harry again, but he was slowing. “Continue.”_

_Harry took a deep breath and went over his talking points in his head. Euphemia had told him to list his accomplishments—Quidditch captain for sixth and his upcoming seventh year, Duelling Club, Oratory Club, his six OWLs. But, Harry ignored every bit of advice that Euphemia had screamed at him, had drilled into his head._

_“I am brilliant, Mr. Riddle,” Harry said quietly. “I am not a proper genius, no. Not like you. But, I know people. I would eat and breathe Tom Marvolo Riddle every minute of every day. Give me a chance to prove myself and I can promise to be a force to reckon with. The wizarding world has stagnated. There is no progress. Only the status quo. I am not_ interested _in maintaining the status quo. Even just reading some of my essays…I…”_

_Harry tapered off. Riddle leaned down. “Finish it off,” he coaxed, voice low and sensual._

_Harry couldn’t fight away his flush, his cheeks burning red. Riddle wasn’t smiling, but he looked so pleased with himself._

_“I may not know Muggle composers, but I do know Muggle philosophers: ‘Man is by nature a political animal’,” Harry hissed softly. “But, I have no interest in being an animal. I want to be a monster, and I think you know the game far better than the way you’re playing.”_

_Harry’s eyes widened, and his breath was strangled in his lungs. He waited for Riddle to respond, wondering if he’d played his hand too early. Euphie always told him that he was a little temperamental._

_But, then, Riddle tilted his head, and a terrifying smile crossed his face._

_“Mr. Potter, you are not what I expected,” Riddle said._

_“Good. Do I have your attention, Mr. Riddle?” Harry asked._

_Riddle’s smile grew wider. It was all teeth._

_“Yes.”_

* * *

“When did you know, Tom?” Harry asked quietly.

Tom stared down at his desk and rapped twice. He looked up, his face still. His eyes blazed with utmost fury.

“I wanted to find a solution first,” Tom said sharply.

Harry’s lips curled back. “Do you have one?”

Tom barked out a laugh that wasn't a laugh. Harry thought he could count on one hand the number of times that he'd ever heard Tom really, truly, laugh. Harry knew what this not-laugh meant though.

“What happened?”

“She said that Scrimgeour needed me as Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation,” Tom said. He let out another sharp bark, or maybe, it was a hiss. Harry was too angry to tell the difference. “A position for fools and marionettes.”

“I knew you shouldn’t have trusted them,” Harry snarled to himself, crossing his arms over his chest. He began to pace the room with heavy stomps, robes swinging around him. His new robes didn’t seem so important now.

“I didn’t. I don’t. I don’t trust anyone.” Tom gave him one of his _significant_ looks.

Harry smiled.

“Then, why didn’t you see this coming? You don’t underestimate people. You tend to _overestimate,_ actually,” Harry sighed, shaking his head. He tore one hand through his hair, messing it up further, tugging at the curls and snarls. “You should be angry.”

“I’m _livid_.”

And finally, Tom looked at him, _really_ looked at him. He was pale, his knuckles bone white. Tom was in control, as he always was, but he was brimming with rage, ready render the world into pieces. Harry’s lips curled into a smile at the sight of him. This was Tom.

Harry stopped in front of the desk and grabbed the letter. Rufus Scrimgeour’s tidy scrawl had promised Tom the position he rightfully deserved—the position of Senior Undersecretary. It was a letter full of campaign promises, that is to say, _lies_. Harry felt his stomach curl inwards and he tasted acid on the back of his tongue. He wanted to spit that acid all over Scrimgeour’s fucking _face._

“How did you find out?” Harry asked.

“Umbridge,” Tom bit out and then he pointed to the emergency memo that had been disbursed all over the Ministry. Harry cursed under his breath as he picked up the piece of paper.

 

_MEMORANDUM FOR THE EMPLOYEES OF THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC_

_FROM: Madame Dolores Umbridge_

_ATTN. Everyone:_

_In the midst of the shifting administration, the following promotions are effective immediately:_

 

_Former Minister_ **Cornelius Fudge** _now occupies the newly-created role of_ **Advisor to the Minister for Magic** _. His role, while unrestricted in any official capacity but by the will of the Minister, is assured to be advisory, only. He will not retain any former powers of Minister._

_With the imminent swearing-in of Minister-Elect_ **Rufus Scrimgeour** _, Auror_ **James Potter** _has been promoted to_ **Head of the Auror Office.**

_With the retirement of_ **Artemisia Price,** _Head of the International Magical Office of Law,_ **Tom Marvolo Riddle** _has been promoted to_ **the** **Head of International Magical Cooperation.**

_Thank you,_

_Madame Dolores Umbridge_

_Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic_

“Congratulations, Harry,” Tom sneered. “You’re the new assistant to the Head of the IMC. I’m sure that involves a salary increase.”

Harry’s fists tightened, the memo crumpling in his hands. He turned to look at the man.

“I was _supposed_ to be assistant to the Senior Undersecretary. Damn them,” Harry snarled. He looked down at the Daily Prophet on the desk between them. Tom’s eyes burned so brightly that Harry was surprised the man hadn’t set the newspaper on fire yet. “I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s your job to know,” Tom said coldly.

Harry frowned. “But, I don’t. We _trusted_ the wrong people.”

"I don't trust anyone," Tom repeated, his tone just as sharp.

Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Scrimgeour won’t trust you to take this silently. You’re too ambitious,” Harry warned.

Tom sat up, regarding Harry with narrowed eyes. “I will not be slighted.”

The way he whispered those words made Harry sit up, eyes narrowed on the new Head of the IMC. Tom’s voice had gone deeper, snarled and guttural like they’d been wrenched from the darkest pit of himself. Tom wasn’t looking at him, staring off at something far away. His burgundy eyes burned bright red for just a moment, and Harry’s lips curled into a slow, curious thing.

“What are you proposing?” Harry asked.

Tom looked at him again, slow. And then, he reached out, grabbing the man by his waist and tugging him down into his lap. Harry let out a bark of laughter that was full of anything but amusement. Tom snarled against his mouth. Harry licked the words from his tongue.

“I will not be pushed into obscurity. I will not be an _asterisk_.”

 


	2. Chapter Two

~*~

_“Some men aren’t meant to be happy._

_They’re meant to be great.”_

~*~

She groaned, twisting in their bed, her mass of curls sliding out of the scarf wrapped around her head. Her wand was emitting a shrill, annoying sound, just shy of the shriek of the Caterwauling Charm.

Hermione Granger turned, throwing her arm out and smacking her boyfriend in the arm.

“Get up, Ron. Up,” Hermione groaned. Ron grunted, sticking his head further underneath his pillow. “We have to leave now. If we’re late, security will be more awful than it’s already _going_ to be.”

Ron grunted again. “Don’t wanna leave.”

“Ronald!” Hermione barked. She sat up, rubbing her hand over her face. “You _are_ the security.”

Ron sighed, knowing that there wasn't a chance in hell that Hermione would be letting him go back to sleep. Rolling over, he sat up and yawned into her face. Hermione's face scrunched up in disgust at his sour breath, but she leaned into his side anyway, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“It’s just meetings all day to go over procedures for the swearing-in ceremony,” Ron said, smacking his lips in her face.

Hermione sighed, sitting up and dragging her hand over her face. She let out a long sigh and nodded her understanding. She turned into his body, pressing herself and sucking up all of his warmth as she sighed, letting the events of the past few days crash over her.

As the inauguration approached, everything had become even more intense, even in Hermione's department. She wasn't sure what the Office of House-Elf Relocation had to do with the pomp and circumstance of a brand new Minister and his administration, but it was all anyone in her office could talk about while Hermione worked on her latest case of an abused house elf named Mimsy that was resisting her relocation to Hogwarts, where she'd receive fair wages and a much nicer bed.

“Do you think Harry will be at the inauguration?” Ron asked as he pressed his nose against the crown of Hermione’s head.

“I don’t see why not,” Hermione added. “After all, his boss is a _department_ head now. Imagine what his salary looks like.”

“It was already high. You’ve seen his flat. It’s incredible,” Ron said. He looked around their modest flat, bought with their lower salaries, and sounded jealous. Hermione harrumphed.

“I’m proud of our flat,” she insisted.

“I am, too. Honestly,” Ron said when Hermione glared at him. “But, I’m just saying, Harry’s salary has always been high. And he’s been working for Riddle for years.”

"Everything's happening so fast. It's so strange, to be on the inside of it now. At Hogwarts, we just read about all of this in the Prophet, but now, we're a part of a change. It's incredible, isn't it?" Hermione asked, unable to keep her excitement out of her voice. As she spoke, her excitement only grew and she leaned in, eyes widening. "But, it's also strange. I'm sure you heard the whispers. Everyone was _sure_ that Tom Riddle was going to be the Senior Undersecretary. But, instead, it's Umbridge. Again. I wonder what that's—"

Hermione’s musings were interrupted by a snore. Hermione startled and she looked up at her boyfriend. He was sleeping.

_Again._

“RON! WE’RE GOING TO BE LATE!”

* * *

“Tom Riddle is displeased.”

Lucius didn’t look up from his work immediately, eyes combing over their statements with ease. It was only when he felt the weight of his wife’s eyes increasing that he finally deigned to emerge from their finances. Lucius winced at the unimpressed glint to his wife’s blue eyes and his lips curled into a lipless smile as he nodded at the love of his life. Narcissa didn’t smile back as she slipped inside and didn’t quite shut the door behind her.

Narcissa observed her husband, searching him for cracks, but could find none in the marble.

“Did you hear me?” she asked. “Tom Riddle is displeased.”

"The man very rarely isn't," Lucius returned. "It's hard to be anything but when you have that harpy for a wife."

“That harpy is my _sister_ , Lucius,” Narcissa snapped.

Lucius snorted. “How could I forget?” he retorted just as fast. He folded his hands on the tabletop, regarding his wife with a smile. “My dear, do tell, how does this knowledge benefit me, in any way.”

“Tom Riddle was meant to be Senior Undersecretary. You understand that, yes?” she asked.

“I do. It’s quite unfortunate that he’s not.”

She searched again for cracks. She found none. That was good, but she’d hope that just as there weren’t any cracks on his mask, there weren’t any in his mind. Narcissa was no Legilimens but Bellatrix was. Tom Riddle _was_.

"Very well," she agreed, and she crossed the room in long strides, gracefully skirting the desk and sitting on the edge. She dropped a hand on top of his head, running long fingers through the silky blonde hair that fell down his back and she rubbed at the tension at his temples. "He is furious, my love. Completely so. And for good reason. Double-crossed by Dolores Umbridge."

“I wonder what happened,” Lucius drawled.

“As do I,” Narcissa agreed. She pressed her cheek against the top of his head, staring into the dancing flames, searching it for any signs of green. Good, no one listened. “You’d better hope he doesn’t find out.”

She felt Lucius stiffen beneath her and Narcissa pulled away, leaning back on her hands to stare down at him. She kicked her feet like they were young again, and she was reminded of when Lucius and she were newlyweds, freshly bonded, and they sat like this and schemed just as they did now. It never got old for Narcissa.

“Narcissa, my dear—”

“I am not a fool, my love,” she purred. “You wouldn’t have married me if I was.”

“You are quite right,” Lucius agreed almost immediately.

Narcissa leaned over his shoulder and looked down at the statements, plucking out the ones in her own name. She hummed as she dragged her finger over the profit line. “Witch Weekly is doing well, then,” she mused, softly.

“Bought on a whim, but it continues to flourish. You could even expand circulation. Say, to the continent?” Lucius edged.

Narcissa paused as Lucius’ words curled in her ear and she heard the confession between each breath. She let out a long throaty laugh and stared at him. He stared back at her, lips pursed, unamused by her own laughter.

“For _the money_ , Lucius? You—” and then, she paused, head snapping over as she heard the subtlest of creaks. Narcissa drew her wand, eyes flashing. “ _Homenum Revelio_.”

There was a shimmer of gold peeking around the doorframe, and Narcissa’s nose wrinkled.

“Draco, darling, eavesdropping is unbecoming.”

Narcissa heard a snuffle and a hissed countercharm, and finally, she caught sight of her son's long shadow under the door. A Disillusionment Charm, then. Well done, but Narcissa had heard his breathing. Draco threw the door open and paraded inside as if he hadn't been eavesdropping in the first place. Lucius' eyes narrowed.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he barked at his son.

Draco nearly flinched but seemed to think that affecting the attitude of a spoiled brat would suit his purposes far better than apologizing. "You're going over the business documents. I heard you. I should be here as well. You're supposed to be teaching me," Draco accused as if he weren't a grown man.

Lucius sneered. “I don’t teach children how to count coins. I teach men how to invest. Are you a man yet, Draco?” Lucius asked, seeming to find terrible pleasure in the way Draco’s cheeks flushed an unattractive red.

“Enough. You’re both children,” Narcissa said dismissively. She stood from her perch, smoothing out the creases in her robes and she walked up to her son, reaching up to take his sharp jaw in her hands. Draco made a disgusted sound, and Narcissa rolled her eyes. “Have you been measured yet?”

Draco shook his head. “No, I have—”

“No excuses. The inauguration is in days and you haven’t even gotten your measurements,” Narcissa warned, irritated. She crossed her arms over her chest. “What about dress robes? Or will you be wearing your old dress robes to the inauguration and something new for the ball?”

“Of course he’ll wear something new to the ball,” Lucius insisted.

Narcissa linked her arm through Draco’s and nodded. “Yes, let’s see. We don’t have enough time for anything _custom_ , but tailored, we can do,” she began.

“But the wait at Malkin’s will be _mad_ , Mother,” Draco whinged.

Narcissa hummed. “I know, darling, but needs must. We didn’t have enough foresight to make an appointment for Prima Madonna. But, we can surely find you something absolutely _ravishing_ ,” Narcissa insisted.

As she walked arm in arm out with her son, she glanced over her shoulder. Lucius stared back at her.

She saw no cracks.

* * *

 

Harry stared into the fire, his lips pursed as he ignored the seamstress’ designs, all lovely and flowing. The parchments were all laid out for him to survey, and he knew he was on a strict deadline, and yet, his mind still swirled with possibilities and plans, all whispered into his ear by one Tom Riddle.

“ _Boy_ —”

“Yes, Euphie?” Harry sighed, turning to face his grandmother fully.

Euphemia Potter née Rowle hissed at him, hazel eyes narrowed in her wrinkled face. Harry offered an apologetic dip of his head, that was met with dismissal.

“You must choose your robes. This is the—”

“Inauguration,” Harry interjected.

Euphemia continued as if she hadn’t heard him: “—social event of the year. You are the assistant to the Head of the IMC. You must make an impression.”

The reminder of Harry’s new position sent a flare of fury down his spine, where it curled around to the pit of his belly and burned, just as bright as the flames in the fireplace. His fingers closed into a fist, and he neglected the glass of wine that he was meant to be drinking to soothe his nerves.

“I was supposed to be the assistant to the Undersecretary.”

Euphemia snorted. “I know. But, you are not.”

She sounded dismissive. Harry knew better; she was _disappointed_.

“I hear most wixen are going to Malkin’s for robes. She’s backordered for ages. People will have to get off the rack,” Harry drawled. He turned to look at his grandmother, his lips pursed as he looked down at the designs. He dragged his fingers over one lovely set of robes. “You have a favorite already, don’t you?”

Euphemia sipped at her glass of port. “Do I?” she asked with a quirked eyebrow.

“ _Yes,_ Euphie,” Harry said, his lips twitching into a smile. He pressed a finger to the robes that he knew she would favor and then snatched another design, laying the two out in front of her. “This one, for the inauguration. It’s conservative. Austere. Submissive. _This_ one for the inaugural ball. Enviable. Beautiful. _Formidable_.”

Those had always been the words that Euphemia had hammered into her grandson’s head.

“Very good. After all, you _are_ lovely,” Euphemia said. She rapped on the table once with her knuckles and with a crack, the house elf appeared. Sookie was wringing the hem of her rag, looking up at her mistress with an adoring gleam to her tennis-ball wide eyes.

“Yes, Mistress?” Sookie asked.

“Fetch the key to the jewelry vaults. Harry must have his choice of gems for the inauguration,” Euphemia said imperiously. She turned back to Harry. “I’ve already sent your measurements to Prima Madonna. Madame Madonna will be making your robes _herself._ After all, you are her favorite customer. Always getting her designs in the Best Dressed section of the Prophet and Witch Weekly, after all.”

Harry leaned back, impressed. “And you?”

“Don’t worry about this old crone, Harry. You’re the face of our family now,” Euphemia said.

Harry snorted, shaking his head. “Dad is the Head Auror now.”

“And _you_ , you will be the Undersecretary. One day,” Euphemia said, firmly, as if speaking it into being. When Sookie disappeared with a crack, Euphemia flicked her wand, sending the door nearly shut. She leaned forward. “Now, tell your dear Grandmother about _what_ happened.”

Her voice had gone steely, and inside of Harry, something turned on with a flick.

“We were tricked.”

“Betrayed,” Euphemia corrected. “None of you are foolish enough to be _tricked_.”

“Betrayed, then,” Harry decided. “We were betrayed. He was promised Undersecretary. And suddenly, we get the news—from the _Prophet_ , mind you—that he has in fact, still been promoted, but to the position of Head of International Magical Cooperation.”

The corner of Euphemia’s lips curled in amusement at her grandson’s obvious disdain.

“Go on,” Euphemia said with a nod.

Harry’s nose wrinkled. “Dolores Umbridge and Cornelius Fudge think that they can keep their hold on the government. They believe they can make Scrimgeour their puppet.”

Euphemia barked out her laughter.

“Another sign of foolishness.”

“Another?” Harry asked, faltering.

“The first being that they thought they wouldn’t face any retribution from you, my dear,” Euphemia said with a smirk, reaching forward to pat Harry’s cheek. Harry preened under his grandmother’s praise and he nodded. “The IMC. It’s a fool’s department. In the wrong hands.”

"The wrong hands?" Harry asked, leaning forward. His mind flashed back to his grandmother's lessons from when he was only a young boy. He remembered where the rankings of power had gone and International Magical Cooperation had never been the leader of the pack.

“You just happen to have the right hands, trust me on that, my dear,” Euphemia reassured. She leaned back in her chair, looking quite smug despite Harry’s irritation. “Your _boss_ has the rights hands for it as well. There are benefits to being friends with the world.”

Harry tilted his head in consideration. “Perhaps,” he allowed with a sigh and Euphemia reached forward, grabbing his chin to tilt his head back and forth. “What are you doing, Grandmother?”

“Kohl around the eyes, I think. To bring out the green,” Euphemia decided, tutting at Harry’s groan as he jerked his face out of her strong grasp. “You are still upset. Understandable. You must understand how this happened and why.”

“I know,” Harry said.

“Good. After that, your next step: what do you plan to do about it?”

Harry leaned back in his chair and looked at his grandmother. Euphemia had always seen potential in him and was the only one that knew what form his ambition took, what way the fire burned. After all, she had burned the same way and had created great wealth for the moderately wealthy Potter family, before she'd married into it. Harry leaned back in his chair and sipped his wine, his lips curled into a smile.

“Change the status quo,” he said into the lip of his glass.

Euphemia beamed. “That’s my boy.”

Harry leaned forward. “Tom and I—”

The door creaked open and a head of flaming red peeked through the door. Both Euphemia and Harry turned sharply, eyes narrowed at the interruption. Lily Evans pretended that it did not affect her as she slid into the room, back ramrod straight, a gentle smile on her lips that didn't match the sharpness of her eyes.

“Mum,” Harry said with a smile.

“Sookie has the key and was going to bring it to you, but I’ve been notified that dinner is ready. I’ve thanked her already,” Lily said with a smile.

Harry watched Euphemia twitch at the thought.

“I’d remind you, Lily, that my house elves don’t like to be thanked,” Euphemia said primly. She drained her glass and set it down sharply.

"Once again, Mother, we differ in opinion," Lily retorted, still as polite, cold tension filling the room.

Harry winced as Euphemia’s smile sharpened. Euphemia thought that Lily was inappropriate. She thought that Lily didn’t understand their ways and thus, would never understand who Harry was and, more important, who he _wasn’t._ Harry hadn’t formed an opinion yet.

“I’ll be sure to thank her too,” Harry said with a smile, casting a warning look at Euphemia. The old woman snorted, rolling her eyes and cuffed Harry in the back of the head. Harry grunted. “What?”

“Won’t you escort an old woman to the dinner table?” Euphemia demanded.

Harry sighed. “Yes, Grandmother Euphie.”

* * *

**ONE YEAR, ELEVEN MONTHS EARLIER**

_~~Dear Riddle~~ _

__

_~~To whom this may be~~ _

__

_To Mr. Tom Riddle,_

_I do not know if you remember me, but we met briefly a few weeks ago at the Daily Prophet’s annual fundraising ball. We shared a dance and you expressed a fondness for the Muggle composer Dmitri Shostakovich. I am glad to let you know that I have retrieved the_

_“Harry?”_

_Harry jerked and looked up from his letter. His lips curled into a lazy smile and he waved Hermione forward towards the table._

_“You’re early!” he said, cheerfully. Hermione looked anxious for just a moment, glancing around at the gardens of Potter Manor, better-suited for Euphemia and her ilk, no matter how many times Harry invited ‘inappropriate friends’ to the family home. Though, honestly, Harry thought Euphemia actually enjoyed Hermione’s quick wit and her intelligence and only pretended she didn’t because it wouldn’t be ‘on brand’ for her._

_Hermione fell into the seat across from him, smiling. Almost immediately, she began to rifle through the discarded papers, smoothing them open on the table. She looked over them with a cursory glance before she looked up at Harry with a raised eyebrow. Harry pretended not to notice as he slid a cuppa over to her and sipped at his own tea, glancing over at the rose labyrinth._

_“You met Tom Riddle?_ The _Tom Riddle?” Hermione asked._

_Harry snorted. “Is there any other, Mione?” he teased. He nodded towards her tea. “Drink your tea.”_

_Hermione shook her head, ignoring her tea. “No! You will not distract me with tea—”_

_“It’s loose leaf, you know. Your favor—”_

_“No,” Hermione insisted. “You’ll find a way to distract me until Ron gets here and he’ll never tolerate conversations about politics. Now, tell me, when and how did you meet Tom Riddle, and why haven’t you written to me about it?”_

_Harry sighed. Hermione was too shrewd._

_“I met him at the Prophet’s fundraising ball—”_

_“The Prophet?” Hermione asked with her nose wrinkled._

_Harry sighed, already gearing up for an old argument. “Hermione, it’s the Prophet. What else do we have?”_

_“It doesn’t matter we have. We_ need _something different. Something that isn’t_ clearly _on the side of the bureaucracy of the Ministry of Magic. Did you know that the Wizengamot just nearly passed_ another _regulation on the employment of werewolves? It’s—” Hermione said, her rant building already._

 _"A travesty. I'm well aware. If you'll remember, my godfather?" Harry asked, his lips quirked into a smile. He leaned forward. "And it_ nearly _passed. It was struck down. Now, do you want to hear about Tom Riddle or not?”_

_Hermione’s face was still screwed up. She grabbed a biscuit, crunching on it and then moaning in delight as she considered his question. “These are incredible. Who—”_

_“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers too,” Harry sang. Hermione’s scowl deepened. “You knew you’d be coming to my grandmother’s home and she’s very traditional. Very old school.”_

_“You mean very pureblood,” Hermione snapped._

_Harry snorted. “Yes, that.”_

_“Ugh, yes, I want to know all about Tom Riddle. Tell me about him. What did you talk about? Besides…” and Hermione trailed off here to standing on her toes and peer over the table at the fresh letter that Harry was writing to the man in question now, “Muggle composers?”_

_“Don’t sound too excited. We spoke about it just so that he could insult my lack of knowledge,” Harry said with a roll of his eyes. He sighed. “I approached him in the middle of a conversation. He’s been rather prominent in the news lately. Youngest subdivision head. Whispers of big changes in how the Office of International Magical Law is structured.”_

_Hermione nodded, keeping up easily. She didn’t need any context. Unlike Harry, no one had to demand that she keep up with politics. That didn’t come naturally to Harry. No, that had been carved into habit by Euphie. Hermione drained her cup of tea as she thought about it._

_“It doesn’t hurt that he’s handsome,” Hermione added._

_Harry swallowed hard as the memory crashed over him again._

_Tom Riddle was tall. That wasn’t to say Harry was short; no, he was a respectable height, though nowhere near as tall as Ron. But, Tom Riddle was even taller than Harry with large hands and long pianist fingers and broad shoulders and a sharp jaw and—_

_"Yes, very handsome," Harry rushed, ignoring Hermione's smirk. He waved his wand carefully, thinking over his lessons with Euphemia as he poured Hermione another cup of tea. Her eyes narrowed at his blatant use of magic before she remembered that he'd turned seventeen weeks ago. "Anyway, we danced. It was nice. We had a brief conversation about his political aspirations, which I couldn't get out of him, mind you, and then, I mentioned that...I dabble in political essays."_

_"More than dabble," Hermione snorted. "I really don't know how you make time for it. I used a Time-Turner and I couldn't keep up with the amount you do."_

_Harry didn’t give her the advice that he wanted to:_ sleep is optional, sleep when you’re dead. _Instead, he smiled under her gracelessly given praise, preening under the professional jealousy she cast his way._

_In some ways, Harry and Hermione got along far better than Ron and Harry or Hermione and Ron. Harry always found a combatant in Hermione, someone that pushed him farther in ways that didn’t come naturally to him. For Harry and Ron, Ron was easy to be around and never pushed. It made Harry lazy and he couldn’t afford to be lazy._

_“So, he requested an essay? Which one will you send?” Hermione asked curiously. She shook her head and scoffed. “Any one of them might be of interest. Maybe the one about political parties?”_

_“That’s an idea,” Harry nodded lazily. He leaned back in his seat and smile over at her and Hermione smiled back._

_“But, I thought you wanted to be an Auror? Like your Dad? It’s all Ron can talk about. You and him going into the Auror Academy together and being partners like your Dad and Sirius,” Hermione said earnestly._

_Harry hummed. He used to talk like that when he was a child, only eleven years old until Euphemia had sat him down and spoke some sense into his head. After that, there were no more ill-thought-out dreams about chasing down ‘bad guys' and blood-covered glory._

_Glory would come to him in other ways._

_“No, I don’t think so. Not anymore,” Harry sighed. “I have bigger ambitions now.”_

* * *

 

Tom stood in the corner of the room, his burgundy eyes narrowed as he regarded the other Department Heads, all schmoozing about. He straightened his inauguration robes and stopped himself from tapping his foot in impatience. No one looked out of place or strained as they milled about the Minister for Magic’s office, and in the center of it all, was Rufus Scrimgeour.

The man that had decided that it was in his best interest to double cross Tom Riddle of all people.

“Hem, hem.”

The soft cough was punctuated with the clink of a wand against the side of a champagne flute and everyone turned to address the woman that was speaking.

Dolores Umbridge was an unpleasant person to speak to as well as to look at. She was a short, squat woman with a broad, pale face, flabby enough that the folds made her look like a great toad with a strange pink bow sitting atop her curls, askew. Girly and breathless, she cast a glowing look around the room that ended on Scrimgeour, adoring and grateful.

“Today is a day of great importance: the end of something wonderful and never-forgotten and the beginning of something we will never want to turn back from. Let us thank our former Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, for all his great years of service,” Umbridge prompted and immediately, the room burst into appropriate applause. Umbridge beamed at her instruction being followed and bounced up and down in a strange curtsey to the man in question.

Fudge lifted his bowler hat in thanks, unable to keep smug pleasure from his face. "Thank you," the man said. "Thank you. It has been an honor to serve you, truly, it has. I am forever your servant and will go on to help usher in the continued success of our great Ministry. I promise that change is coming."

Amelia Bones did not look amused. Scrimgeour looked on, grim-faced. Umbridge didn’t react at all, as if this was something she had expected and had planned for. She leaned forward, looking around again, coughing sweetly to gain everyone’s attention again.

“And to our newest Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, may you reign accordingly!” Umbridge finished without fanfare, and this time, the applause was louder.

Scrimgeour nodded his thanks, and Tom was quick to note the grimace on Fudge's face. Umbridge leaned forward as if expecting a speech. Scrimgeour looked away, turning back to his conversation, and Umbridge's expression fell, ever so slightly.

Tom hid his smirk in his champagne, tossing it back and moving to leave without a single word uttered from him. As he moved towards the door, a small hand clamped around his elbow and Tom had to stop himself from turning around and cursing whoever had grabbed him. His urge to curse his assaulter grew ever larger.

"Tom, I hope there aren't any hard feelings," Madame Dolores Umbridge began, her voice high and sweet. She punctuated her words with a giggle like she couldn't help herself. Tom was careful to keep his grimace at a professional level. "I know he made you a promise, but, as they always do in politics, circumstances have changed."

Tom hummed, nodding. “I understand changing circumstances, Madame, I do. I do _not_ understand why I wasn’t part of the conversation.”

“It was last minute, Tom, really,” Umbridge insisted, simpering. She leaned forward. “Rufus wanted to speak to you himself, but as you can see—” and she gestured to the man himself, the new Minister of Magic who was caught up in a round of discussions with Amelia Bones, the Head of the DMLE and the Head of the Department of Magical Education, Griselda Marchbanks.

“I understand.” Tom _lied_ through his teeth.

If Tom was a kind man, he would pity Rufus Scrimgeour. The man thought he was in charge but hopelessly was not. He was no politician. No, he was an Auror. A soldier. The electorate thought that a soldier would push for change, but no, he wouldn't. Rufus Scrimgeour thrived in routine, whether that routine meant pushing paper or running through the streets of London searching for a two-bit criminal.

So, if Tom was a kind man, he would pity Rufus Scrimgeour.

The new Minister didn’t _choose to_ be made his meal. But, when Tom carved him up and threw him to the dogs, only then would he would be able to confront the brutality of his new truth: he’d been a carcass all along.

“Tom?” Umbridge said in that sweet cotton candy voice.

Tom wanted to rip her fucking throat out.

“Yes, Madame?” he asked, stiffly.

“Where are you going? The Chief Warlock is on his way up now, and he specifically mentioned that he wanted to—” Umbridge continued, her beady eyes almost blown black with attraction. Tom’s stomach turned at the very idea of her in any sexual manner.

“I’m sorry, Madame, but I must be meeting my wife,” Tom said, stiffly.

He turned on his heel and left without another word.

* * *

 

“You look sloppy,” Rita reiterated for the third time that day.

Ginny flushed, squirming in her secondhand dress robes. She looked around the press section, everyone dressed in their very best, and then into the general crowd. Everyone looked even better, all in custom fitted or even custom made robes.

“Now, look there. Do you know who that is?” Rita hissed in Ginny’s ear.

Ginny shook her head. In the last week of being employed to Rita, she had learned that it was best to admit when she didn’t know something, because Rita would always _, always_ know when she was lying and would make her feel even worse for it.

“That’s Mafalda Hopkirk. She has just replaced Dolores Umbridge as Head of the Improper Use of Magic. She’s attempting to create a liaison with Griselda Marchbanks, Head of Education. Do you know why?” Rita asked.

Ginny huffed. “You know I don’t.”

Rita’s bright red lips curled into a too-wide smile as she took satisfaction in Ginny not knowing something _again_.

“Mafalda Hopkirk believes in the _children_. She’s all about the _children_ as the future. And family values. She’s chained to the idea of it. Of course, when you’re caught out fucking barely overage children, I’ll make that hypocrisy _hurt_ , the moment she steps out of line,” Rita hissed with a bright grin.

Ginny lurched and she looked over at her boss, wide-eyed. “What do you mean?”

“She’s having an affair with an associate in her department. Fresh out of Hogwarts. Your year then. Does the name Harper mean anything to you?” Rita asked curiously. She already had her poison green Quick-Quotes quill in hand, ready to jot down anything that Ginny had to share.

Ginny’s brain startled back into working order. “Your mean Harper, the Slytherin Seeker?”

“I don’t care what position he played on a school Quidditch team,” Rita said with a roll of her eyes. She scoffed, shaking her head as she turned her attention back to the rest of the crowd. “We’ll discuss this later. Anyone else you see? Oh, the _Potters_.”

“Harry Potter?” Ginny stuttered.

She felt that regular flash of rage.

Harry Potter always inspired that in her. Harry Potter who was _perfect_ at everything. Better at everything and did everything. Harry Potter that had exited Hogwarts with a dream job while Ginny—Ginny’s dream had been _stolen_. She felt her knee twinge.

Harry had always been the star of the show, even when he pretended that he didn’t want to be. He’d be in something flashier— _sluttier_ —for the inaugural ball, and Ginny would have to hear her mother talk about it at Sunday dinner, ranting and raving until one of the twins made fun of her for it.

“Merlin, I _wish_. He’s a treat. I wonder who he’ll be wearing. Prima Madonna was shut all day for a private client yesterday. Last minute fittings. Maybe him?” Rita asked. She sounded delighted by the very idea that she hadn’t been able to get wixen couture because _maybe_ Harry Potter had shut down the closest atelier for himself like the greedy asshole that he was.

“Who cares about Harry Potter?” Ginny muttered.

Rita’s expression grew serious. “You should. Harry Potter, though assistant to Tom Riddle, is arguably one of the most important people at this inauguration today. He’s a major player in the bureaucracy. He knows how to play the game,” Rita said.

That’s how she referred to politics: the game.

 _Harry knew how to play all sorts of games_ , Ginny thought nastily.

“Okay,” she muttered.

Rita scoffed. “For that attitude, you’ll be reporting _only_ on Harry Potter tonight. Hope you can get an interview with him. He rarely does them, unless it benefits his boss,” Rita said snidely. She ignored Ginny’s outrage, casting a poisonous look at her newest employee. “Don’t forget, Ginevra Weasley. It’s a _privilege_ that you’re here. Not a right.”

* * *

 

Harry entered the waiting room, mumbling to himself as he looked around. There was no one else there. That meant everyone had already crowded into the Atrium, it seemed. He was only late because he had chosen Apparition over using the toilet system that was in place for Ministry employees. Using the guest entrance meant he didn’t need to worry about ruining Madame Madonna’s hard work.

But, it also meant that was almost late. Very well.

He straightened and began to move with purpose, bright green eyes trained forward and then—he sensed someone. Someone familiar and well-known. He slowed down his stroll and waited, glancing around but only caught sight of dark alcoves down the long hallway.

“You’re late.”

Harry’s lips curled into a slow cool smile. “I’m right on time, Madame.”

Bellatrix Black-Riddle stared at him, just the corner of her lips tilted upward. She looked him up and down, staring at the sweep of his austere black robes, almost disappointed in his choice. She, on the other hand, was in rich aubergine velvet, draped daringly across her body in ways that made it clung to her curves. She complimented her husband well, who was in a green so dark that it looked nearly black.

“You look...lovely,” Bellatrix said. Her nose wrinkled.

Harry scoffed. “These are my inauguration robes.”

“Ah, yes. Our little fashion plate can’t go a day without an outfit change,” Bellatrix jeered.

Harry kept his smile even as his eyes narrowed.

 _I’m going to replace you, one day,_ that looked seemed to say, and Bellatrix immediately schooled her expression with something more neutral. She gestured to the side with a dip of her head and both went towards the alcove where Tom waited, dramatically pressed back into the shadows. Harry looked over his expression, examining the sharp cut of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes.

The man hadn’t slept, but he was _awake_ , fuelled by rage. Harry turned to his boss, and tilted his head, looking over his robes.

“You look good,” Harry complimented.

Tom snorted. “Of course.” He looked over Harry, appreciatively.

He hasn’t looked at his wife once.

“What do we do?” Bellatrix asked coolly. Harry raised an eyebrow at her and Bellatrix’s black-painted lips twisted into something sour. “I know you both. Don’t act as if I don’t. It’s us against them.”

“I want them obliterated,” Tom added.

Harry smiled. “More than that. Let’s make them suffer.”

Tom and Bellatrix exchanged sly looks. They weren’t sure if they should be proud or terrified. Bellatrix leaned down, brushing her nose against Harry’s temple. He could feel her terrifying smile against his skin. He took the kiss to his forehead with grace.

In his head, _I’m going to replace you, I’m going to_ **eviscerate** _you, you serve a PURPOSE,_ boomed through his head like a tattoo. A reminder.

A promise.

“Very good. Tom was right. You _are_ a quick study,” Bellatrix whispered.

Harry coughed around a laugh.

Tom hummed and offered his arm. Bellatrix latched on because she couldn’t help herself, long nails digging into cloth and flesh. She tilted her nose up, staring down it at Harry, and Harry slid against Tom’s other side. He softened when he felt the man’s fingers brush against his wrist. Harry nodded and Tom nodded back, and they were off, entering the gleaming black Atrium in the center of a sea of people.

Harry passed familiar and unfamiliar ones. There were his underlings—Penelope was attempting to wrangle over excited interns—and there were his peers, Hermione standing with the rest of her department and Ron standing with Sirius. Harry did not return any of their smiles, staring straight ahead as he walked right past them. He felt like he was floating as he strode right past his own mother and father and Euphemia, never making eye contact as he proceeded to the third row.

Scrimgeour stood on the dais, his lion’s mane fierce, the glint of his golden eyes holding something that the world might think was hope and determination.

Harry finally allowed himself to look at Tom. Tom was watching him back.

They thought the same thing: whatever that glint may be, they would stamp it out.

Harry had made many choices in his life. He had done many great things. Terrible, but great.

This was the easiest one to make.

Dolores Umbridge and Cornelius Fudge stood on either side of Scrimgeour, flanking him, as they faced their future. Harry’s stomach acid curdled. He felt Tom’s hands tighten on his wrist and Harry relaxed his face just a tad more.

No one else needed to know.

 _Let’s make them suffer._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm back after a million years. But, only briefly. I have finished my second to last draft of my original fiction and I'm waiting for comments back from my beta readers, so I thought: well, I need to write, and what better thing to write than fanfiction.
> 
> If some of you are new, hello, I'm Joey, welcome to my crib, I hope you enjoy your stay. If you're returning whether that be to this fic or from one of my other fics (HELLO, DIAGNOSIS fans), then my stories are full of angst. Come for the sex: which hasn't appeared yet, but SOON, stay for the sadness.
> 
> Oh, and I'm pretty sure the beginning quote goes to Scandal Season 1, Episode 7!
> 
> Anyway, I'd appreciate it if you left a review. Peace and fish grease, y'all!


	3. Chapter Three

 

__~~*~~_ _

_“It’s us against them. Always._

_Otherwise, what was the Goddamn point?”_ [1]

__~~*~~_ _

“These robes?” Bellatrix asked, pointing to the proper robes of tulle and satin, high-necked and black. And then she turned to something more daring, harnesses and leathers, and wholly her. “Or these robes?”

“The first,” Tom said, without turning away from the mirror. He smoothed his robes. Prima Madonna had been shut down all day to create these robes—his and Harry’s—and the craftsmanship was apparent. It was no easy feat to manipulate basilisk scales.

Bellatrix was behind him now and he could see her reflection, where she stood in lingerie and her heels, the black suspenders of her garter belt digging into her thighs, hoisting up her stockings. She simpered over his shoulder, puckering violently purple lips at him.

“But, I like the second,” she whinged.

"Yes, but the second isn't...appropriate. Yet," Tom insisted. He shrugged her off as he walked to their shared boudoir and shifted through the cursed silver box that housed his most precious things. Carefully, he pulled out the heavy golden ring, ugly and clumsy with a cracked black stone, and slid it onto his right ring finger. "You can wear whatever you want when we're more established."

"You're now the youngest Department Head in the Ministry's history. How much more established can you be?" Bellatrix insisted, flinging herself onto the edge of their marriage bed. She was glaring at him now, too caught up in her tantrum to understand that the world was much bigger than her need to wear a harness to a formal gala.

"That isn't saying much," Tom said. He was nearly forty, he didn't say.

Thirty-seven and still, nothing to prove for it. Nearly forty and still not the Senior Undersecretary.

“Tom…” she began again.

"Not. Now. Bellatrix," he warned. He snapped the box shut and turned to look at her again. She was staring at him as if she hated him, and that made him smile.

“I don’t ask for much. You ask for everything,” Bellatrix hissed.

“You shouldn’t have offered everything,” he returned lazily. With a single backward glance, he warned, “Be ready in half an hour.”

He left her there, traversing through the halls of Riddle Manor. Despite being in a Muggle town, Tom always felt powerful in his home, a place that he had taken by right of conquest. Sometimes, he could still hear their screams and he smiled for it.

Sometimes, he looked outside of the tall windows, flanked with heavy golden threaded curtains and stared down at the little hovel that his blood had come from and he felt _powerful_.

Tom didn’t knock when he entered the room upstairs. He lingered in the doorway, watching the smooth expanse of unblemished back, the knots of his spine that disappeared under a mess of black curls that brushed his shoulders, just long enough to be tamed back into something resembling a chignon, but not quite.

Harry reached around with his wand, trying to aim correctly, and Tom crossed the room in three quick steps, dragging his fingers up along Harry’s shoulder blades, pressing close to feel the heat of his skin.

“Do you need assistance with that?” Tom drawled against the shell of Harry’s ear. He smirked as the younger man shivered.

“Maybe,” Harry said.

_Yes,_ he meant.

Tom began to button up the back of the robes, slowly, watching them come together and meld at the seam until it was like there weren’t any buttons at all. The train of Harry’s robes gathered at his feet, a cape that extended from his shoulders, gilded silver so that they caught on fire each time they passed a lit fire. He would glow. It was very Harry—which was to say, very _Euphemia_ Potter because Harry was the woman's ambitions made flesh.

“How do I look?” Harry asked, his voice soft. Tom’s fingers had reached the top and he stroke the exposed skin at the nape of Harry’s back. Harry tilted his head to the side as he felt Tom’s lips press into the skin there.

“Lovely,” Tom said. He met Harry’s gaze in their reflection and dug his teeth in, just enough so that Harry felt them there, at his pulse, but not enough to bruise. “Are you ready?”

“Are we really going to do this?” Harry asked.

Tom’s eyes flashed. He dug his teeth in harder. Harry whimpered gently.

“Are you...reconsidering?” Tom warned.

“No,” Harry snorted. He turned in Tom’s arms, displacing his teeth and stared at him with narrowed eyes. “I’m only wondering if _you’re_ ready, Mr. Riddle.”

Tom stared at him for a long moment, wondering if he was joking. Harry’s lips curled into a smile—red, a dark red, though, and just subtle enough that it could almost be real, expect Tom has seen Harry stripped to nothing _and—_ and he walked away towards the velvet flat box that he flipped up to reveal a sapphire ring and a choice pocket watch, different from the one that he usually sported. This one wasn’t gold like Harry’s everyday pocket watch. This one was silver, inlaid with pearls.

“They cheated me out of my position,” Tom said.

Harry hummed his agreement. “Then, give me my orders for the night. _Sir_.”

Tom wanted to have this boy on his fucking knees.

Instead, he took another step back.

“Find out what happened. Find out _why_ Scrimgeour chose Umbridge over me."

Harry smiled wider. “Yes, sir. Save me a dance.”

He swept out of the room without a glance backward and Tom stared after him.

Tom wanted to have that boy on his fucking back.

* * *

 

"Lesson one: we don't know any of these people. These are the elite. We don't want to know who they say they are. We want to know the juicy mystery underneath their rosy cheeks," Rita drawled as she paraded down the steps, her bright red pumps clicking dangerously against marble. Everywhere she went, people smiled, skirting backward out of her way.

Ginny followed her like an ill-begotten shadow. She didn’t write down Rita’s words. Everything was always lesson one when Rita Skeeter spoke to her. Life was a constant ‘lesson one’, but the very first lesson Ginny had learned was that she should probably internalize all of those lessons and save space on her parchment for ‘reporting’, which Rita still didn’t think was up to par.

“And whose story are we looking for tonight, Miss Skeeter?” Ginny sighed.

Rita turned cold reptilian eyes on her. "How old do you think I am?" she hissed.

“Sorry. _Rita_.”

“And _I’m_ looking for anyone’s story, but most _importantly,_ you are looking for Harry Potter,” Rita said. Her lips curled into a smile, excited and she leaned forward, gesturing with a long bejeweled nail to the navy blue carpet by the gathered crowd of photographers. “And there he is _now_.”

Ginny followed the line of Rita’s nail and her irritated look faltered into something younger.

Harry Potter looked just as beautiful as she thought he would. Tall and precise in robes gilded silver. The fabric was almost sheer, except for the parts that mattered the most. It was just daring enough without being tasteless and probably costed more than Ginny’s yearly salary and it just made her hate him more.

Ginny stalked down the steps, brushing her red hair out of her eyes, squeezing between photographers that shot her glares. She stood at the fringe as Harry made his way down the marble wall, turning this way and thought for the photographers from _Witch Weekly_ and _Spellbound_ , all eager for a taste of him.

His eyes were glazed like he was thinking about something else. And then, Ginny reached out.

“Harry.”

Rita's eyes widened at the casual address. Ginny pretended not to preen. Instead, she kept her gaze trained on Harry Potter. Harry Potter looked away from the exploding lightbulbs of cameras and something in his ruby smile shifted. It became sharper, a mouth full of swords, and he lifted his chin, lifting the edge of his robes to walk towards Ginny.

“Ginny Weasley, as I live and breathe. It’s been a while. How are you?” Harry asked, reaching out to her. He was already a man of decent height—nothing to brag about—but he was so absurdly tall in his dragonhide boots. He leaned down to press a condescending kiss to her temple.

“I’m well. I work for the Prophet now,” Ginny said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry tilted his head, looking almost innocent. “The sports vertical?”

"No, actually. Political correspondence," Ginny retorted. She watched Harry's smile twitch wider. "I'm sure you know the illustrious Rita Skeeter."

Harry turned to the other woman and nodded, reaching out a hand. He took Rita Skeeter’s hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a red kiss to her knuckles, leaving a mark.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Miss Skeeter,” he said.

It didn’t sound nice at all.

“And you as well, Mr. Potter,” Rita said, eyes glazed wide. “And how do you know my...plucky little reporter?”

“He’s my older brother’s best friend from school. And we were on the same Quidditch team my sixth year. I played Chaser. Reserve Seeker,” Ginny said, never taking her eyes away from Harry.

Harry’s face fell and he looked genuinely _sad_ at the reminder. “Until that _horrible_ accident. I can’t believe they never caught who he did it,” he said, earnestly. He turned to Rita and murmured. “I found her. On the third floor. It was…”

Ginny wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that was the story. But, there were holes in her memory, cracks in the glass, and Ginny had always prided herself on the fact that she never forgot a face. For a moment, her knee twinged.

She forced a smile on her face.

“And now, I’m a junior political correspondent for the Daily Prophet,” Ginny said, closing that chapter of her life. She leaned forward, nodding at Rita. Harry picked up her cue and smiled back at her, waiting patiently. “So, can I get a quick interview, Harry?”

Harry’s smile twitched again.

"Um, sure," he said, uncertain. He looked around like he was looking for an out, and when he couldn't find one, he turned back to Ginny. He had his game face on, now. "What about?"

Rita leaned forward, her eyes bright with enthusiasm, but this was Ginny’s match, and she was going to catch the fucking Snitch.

“Who are you wearing?” Ginny said with a slow smile.

Rita hissed in her ear, “What the fuck are you doing?”, but Ginny didn’t look away from the target.

Harry looked amused. “Couture. Madame Madonna of Prima Madonna.”

“Very cool,” Ginny sighed, nodding to herself. “The jewels are family jewels, right?”

“You’re absolutely right.” Harry sounded bored now.

“What direction will Tom Riddle be leading the IMC in, in the future?” Ginny asked. She cursed herself at the vagueness and rushed to finish off with something more specific. She racked her brain for knowledge of what was going on in the world, but still, her mind was still very Quidditch oriented and Rita Skeeter’s brand of education wasn’t complete. She remembered something...Percy complaining at Sunday dinner about the cost of _…potion_ _ingredients_. “As in, what are his policies going forward in dealing with the growing continental domination on potion ingredients and how will we encourage trade for our more regional exports?”

Harry blinked and then, he smiled, impressed by her. Harry had been a Gryffindor, just like her, but Ginny thought in that moment, with his poisonous bright eyes and the sharpness of his white teeth, he looked like a snake.

Rita made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat.

Harry crossed his arms over his chest.

“I can’t quite say where Mr. Riddle will be leading the IMC in the future. I will let you know that it’s a bright one,” Harry said, an empty soundbite if anything.

“And the potion ingredients, Harry?” Ginny demanded.

Harry hummed, regarding her for a long minute. “Well, Ginny, that seems more like a question for the International Magical Trading Standards Body?”

“Tom Riddle is the new Head of the IMC,” Ginny insisted. “Isn’t this something you should know?”

Harry laughed, airily and as he geared up to answer, someone shouted his name. Harry turned, following the voice to Sirius Black, and his partner, Remus Lupin. Ginny remembered Remus as their former Defense professor.

“Mr. Riddle will be restructuring the department shortly, and then you should receive your answer on...potion ingredients, was it?” Harry said. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the apples of Ginny’s cheeks and then he smiled, tilting his head, an empty thing. “It was nice seeing you, Ginny.”

And then, Harry Potter was off without another word and there was Ginny, with barely a quote to show for it. Ginny didn’t even have a moment to wallow in self-pity before Rita swooped down and grabbed her by her elbow, dragging off to a much quieter corner of the entrance hall, away from the shouting reporters and the cameras.

“What was that?” Rita asked, eyes bright with excitement. “What accident?”

Ginny shook her head. “Nothing,” she snapped. “Have you been satisfied?”

Ginny waited for it—the grudging disapproval, given to spite Ginny, to put her back in her place. But, Rita looked almost like she respect Ginny more for what had just happened.

Rita smirked and nodded at her. “Good job, rookie. You got a quote.”

Ginny’s eyes widened.

“What?” she whispered. “He didn’t _say_ anything about the potion—”

“Tom Riddle is restructuring the IMC. That means someone’s getting fired. It was sloppy, but you got a quote,” Rita said. Her eyes glowed. “We’ll make a reporter out of you _yet_.”

* * *

 

“Don’t you look _dashing_ ,” Blaise teased, flashing a mouth of white as he leaned forward, clasping Draco by his forearm. Draco grabbed back, squeezing hard, reaching for reassurance. Blaise’s answering squeeze grounded him, and he allowed himself the tiniest quirk of his lips.

“Don’t you look _off-the-rack_ ,” Pansy drawled over his shoulder.

Draco’s eyes narrowed as he looked her up and down. “Didn’t I see those robes four years ago? On your mother? In a picture from a decade earlier?”

“Come now, Draco, haven’t you heard?” Pansy trilled, tossing her short black bob. “Vintage is _in_. Witch Weekly says so.”

Even with her ragging, she leaned forward, pressing a quick peck to his jaw and he dragged her in, taking a deep breath. He basked in the comfortable scent of freesias and charcoal, and then pulled back to look into her heavily-lined eyes, the shadows that breezed out into the arches of her dark eyebrows. She really did look good in her mother's old robes, tailored to fit her skinnier frame. Pansy was aiming for a picture in Witch Weekly.

She didn’t have to look far. Draco’s mother would adore her look.

“Who’s here?” Draco asked, pale eyes darting over wane faces.

“The usual,” Blaise said, effortlessly, handsomely bored. “The Notts, the Longbottoms, the Yaxleys, the Bones. The Potters, too, with your cousins—"

“And the _Lestranges_ ,” Pansy said, sounding excited. She jerked her head over to the two men in question, and she beamed, fanning herself. “They haven’t been to an event like this in years.”

"There hasn't been an event so large in years. It's the inaugural ball," Draco said in confirmation. He looked for the man of honor for the night and found the new Minister off the edge of the dance floor, surrounded by other well-known politicians—Ludo Bagman, Bartemius Crouch Sr, and a few lower levels that Draco would never deem to know the name of. “What about my aunt? And Riddle?”

He'd never called Tom Riddle his uncle in his life. The one time that Narcissa had tried to insist on it, Riddle had very seriously looked down at him and, to three-year-old Draco, he'd said, _You may call me ‘Riddle’_. And that had been the end of it. Even the name Tom, what Bellatrix called him, felt too mundane to call a person like Riddle.

“I heard Potter—the younger, that is—is around. They won’t be too far behind, yeah? Potter is always the opening act,” Blaise said. He sounded almost appreciative.

Draco made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “Haven’t given up on that one yet?”

“Harry Potter is a good looking man,” Blaise said, very seriously. “He deserves a place in my bed.”

Pansy cackled, meanly. She drained her champagne and smirked. “Do you deserve a place in his? You’re an Advocate’s clerk. He’s the assistant to Tom _Riddle_.”

Blaise’s hazel eyes narrowed. “I’m the Advocate-in-Charge’s clerk, and just like you said: he’s the assistant.”

"Don't be simple," Pansy snapped. "He basically controls who sees Tom Riddle, and now, Riddle is in charge of international magical cooperation. Potter's the second most powerful person in that entire department."

Draco raised an eyebrow. That was news to him. He turned to address Pansy.

“Does that really make him powerful?”

Pansy’s brow furrowed. “It’s complicated, but yes,” she agreed. She was staring at the doors, waiting for him to enter, and she didn’t have to wait long.

The crowd parted like a great sea, and they were treated to the sight of Harry Potter. Pansy leaned in, eyes wide and assessing. Draco followed her lead, looking the other man up and down. He was lovely, once more, in robes that were extravagant, like a woman’s robes, but perfectly tailored, perfectly crafted for his body. It drew everyone’s eyes, and he looked like he was on fire. Each step Potter took, he looked more and more smug with the reactions.

Only Draco could tell; he was always able to tell when Potter was _smug_.

“Stop frowning, Draco. You’ll get lines,” Blaise teased.

“Shut up,” Draco said, sulkily.

Pansy tittered again. “Don’t tell me you’re still obsessed with him?” Pansy laughed. “He doesn’t even really know you exist, does he?”

Draco scoffed.

Harry Potter knew he existed, and if he'd forgotten, well, Draco would just have to remind him.

* * *

Bellatrix clung to her husband's arm as they posed together, staring into the burning white lights, caught in the tunnel of clicking cameras and explosions of fire. Tom didn't smile as they posed together, so Bellatrix smirked for him. As they made their way forward, it wasn't until they were at the mouth of the beast that Bellatrix leaned over, pressing her lips to the shell of his ear.

“What is the plan?” she breathed, softly, and then giggled when she felt the stares on her. She would make sure that no one sensed if anything wasn’t exactly as Tom and her presented.

“I will speak to the bureaucrats. You will focus on the purebloods,” Tom decided. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the room, and found few of his closest circle. It was no wonder that he didn’t want to deal with the tiresome petty politics of pureblood culture.

“We’ll switch, next time?” Bellatrix asked.

Tom hummed. “We keep to our spheres of dominance. It’s better that way,” Tom decided and then he disengaged his arm from hers, swiftly cutting through the fray, plucking a glass of wine from one of the many floating trays.

Bellatrix fought to keep her irritation off her face, the sourness that curdled on her tongue. She followed her husband with her eyes, waiting to see if he’d catch up with _him_. But, Harry Potter was nowhere in sight, and that was very good. She still felt his presence, haunting and cloying in the crooked corners of Riddle Manor, always there, forever out of her sight line, just like Tom liked to keep his little—

“Sister,” Narcissa cooed in her ear, latching onto her and pulling her forward.

Bellatrix’s lips curled into a half-smile despite herself, that faltered when Lucius fell into her sightline. His eyes narrowed at her, hands tightening around the gaudy cane.

“Bellatrix,” Lucius drawled.

Bellatrix hummed as she drew tighter to Narcissa's side. "Brother," she said because she knew the title enraged him and it just made her even prouder to use. She looked around. "You look old."

“So do you,” Lucius retorted just as fast. “How’s your husband in the wake of his...loss?”

Bellatrix laughed off her rage.

“Well. I don’t imagine you’d fare so well if one of your plans didn't come to fruition. But, Tom, well, he's always known how to improvise," Bellatrix said, smoothly. She ignored Narcissa's shrewd gaze and swallowed her own tongue. Lucius may not see her meaning between barbed words, but Narcissa had always been more deciphering of the way Bellatrix twisted truth, rather inexpertly for a Slytherin.

Narcissa had always had more of a talent for it. And Andro— _no_.

“Sirius is here. Still disgracing the family with the werewolf, I see. But, the Black blood has gone to shit in recent years,” Lucius sighed, airily. He sipped his wine and then leaned over to press a quick peck to his wife’s offered cheekbone. “With noticeable exceptions.”

“Enough,” Bellatrix barked, allowing Lucius his petty win. “Who’s here?”

“Everyone,” Narcissa returned.

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. “You know what I meant, _Cissy_.”

“I presume you mean who’s here that isn’t a blood traitor. Very well,” Narcissa said, primly. She cut her gaze over the crowds, allowing a swift smile for her only son as he held his own form of court amongst his other recently graduated peers. “The Yaxleys are here. The Notts. The Rosiers.”

“I wonder. Their opinions on the new Government?” Bellatrix asked.

“Disappointed, but hopeful,” Narcissa assessed. “Of course, your husband is more sympathetic to our...growing concerns, but they don’t find Umbridge _unreasonable_ , per se. She can be persuaded.”

Bellatrix hummed.

Bribery, then. It would be easy. Umbridge had an eye like a dragon, hoarding influence and gold everywhere she went, to be wielded against her enemies, all while appearing with the poisoned honey of a kitten. It was deception at its finest. But, only bribery, Bellatrix thought.

Dolores Umbridge had no idea how far Tom would go.

“The Longbottoms are pleased,” Lucius added, wanting to be helpful. He sneered.

Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed over at him. “Why?”

“ _Mimbulus Apothecaria_ specializes in local premium potion ingredients. It’s the son’s shop. He’s rather simple, and you know Augusta. Perhaps not as adhered to the old ways as she should be, but quite concerned with appearances,” Lucius sneered, casting a look over at the Longbottoms.

“So, it’s about money?” Bellatrix scoffed, shaking her head. “All of them?”

Lucius’ eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you’re acclimated to your husband’s bureaucrat salary, but dear _sister_ , it’s always about money.”

Narcissa had been long silent and she guided Bellatrix forward, her eyes trained on two men that stood farther apart from the others, distinctly out of place. Bellatrix looked them up and down, attempting to place them, but even with her endless ball experience, she wasn’t quite sure who they were, despite how familiar they seemed.

Bellatrix's eyes found the shorter of the two. He was centimeters shorter than his companion—brother, perhaps—but, he was certainly the more handsome of the two. Thick brown curls that were slicked down to rest at the nape of his neck, a thick dark beard across his cheeks, over his lip. He was handsome, indeed.

“Rabastan, Rodolphus, darlings!” Narcissa said with a delicate smile.

She approached them with little fanfare as if everyone who was anyone wasn't staring with the same curiosity that Bellatrix felt. Narcissa leaned forward, pressing a swift kiss to each of Rabastan’s cheeks, and then the same to the shorter man.

“Narcissa, dear,” Rabastan said, clasping her free hand in both of his. “Lovelier than ever. Ageless.”

“Oh, Rabastan,” she laughed, “you know very well how old I am. Bellatrix, darling, let me introduce you to friends of ours. This is Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange. Rabastan is a curse-breaker. He operates out of Egypt. We went to Beauxbatons together. And this is his elder brother, Rodolphus—”

“Rodolphus Lestrange,” Bellatrix said, tasting the name on her tongue.

It tasted like Firewhiskey.

“Bellatrix Black,” Rodolphus greeted with a short bow. As Bellatrix approached him, she saw that she was taller than him in her heels. “The duelling instructor.”

“Black-Riddle. And _former_ duelling instructor. Current historian,” Bellatrix said. She took pleasure in Narcissa’s surprise, and then her slight put-outness of not having the social advantage.

“Ah, yes, of course. I do apologize, Madame Black-Riddle, for not responding to your letter in a timely fashion,” Rodolphus said with an awkward tilt to his lips. “Of course, if I had only realized _sooner_ , that I would be speaking with the illustrious duelling instructor, I might have mustered the enthusiasm much sooner.”

“You know of Rodolphus’ work, then?” Narcissa jumped in, excitedly, eyes bright. “Will you finally be updating your _Manor_?”

"I'm sorry?" Bellatrix asked, a perfectly arched eyebrow rising.

Rabastan laughed. “My older brother is an architect, darling. Very best in his field.”

Rodolphus looked almost embarrassed.

“He designed Malfoy Manor’s newest update,” Lucius said with a smirk, proud that he had paid the most money as per usual. “I skipped nearly the entire waiting list.”

“Anything for an old friend,” Rodolphus insisted. He turned back to Narcissa, eager to explain himself. "But, no. Madame Black-Riddle wished to speak with me concerning her new history about the Sacred Twenty-Eight. If I may be so bold, I'd accept that offer of drinks in exchange for my rather limited view."

“No, not limited, Lord Lestrange. As one of the few Lords of the Wizengamot that does not attend session normally, your view would be even more appreciated," Bellatrix insisted. She licked her lips, and smiled wider, watching his gaze follow the pink of her tongue. She leaned forward. "Also, do call me Bellatrix."

“Then, you must call me Rodolphus. I will have my secretary email you my available times, then?” Rodolphus asked.

Bellatrix nodded. “Absolutely, Rodolphus.”

She’d always been partial to Firewhiskey.

* * *

**ONE YEAR, ELEVEN MONTHS AGO**

_“I liked your essay.”_

_It was the first thing Tom Riddle had said to him after Harry had ordered and received his steak and kidney pudding and a salad. Riddle had only ordered wine. Harry dragged his lips from the tines of his fork, eyes wide and he swallowed very precisely, taking a moment to gather his thoughts._

_“You did?” Harry asked and then hated how soft his voice was, how vulnerable._

_Euphie’s voice screamed in his:_ Enviable. Beautiful. Formidable.

_He didn't feel like any of those things. Certainly not enviable, certainly not beautiful, and certainly not formidable now that he was without fancy robes, exposed in daylight on the patio of a restaurant that Harry had never eaten at. It was stuffed to the brim with the elite, and Lily would never have tolerated it. His mum had quite a bit to say about the elite class of the wizarding world. She'd held her tongue for his sake when he'd told her his plans, but Harry could see it in her eyes, even while Euphie beamed._

_“I did,” Riddle confirmed, giving him a warning look. He hated to repeat himself. “Political parties. A product of the Muggles, I suspect.”_

_Harry frowned. “Are you prejudiced, Mr. Riddle?”_

_“I am_ cautious _,” Riddle warned, his eyes flashing._

_Harry took that for what it was._

_“Well, maybe the term is from the Muggles, but we fall along ideological lines as a society as well. Purebloods versus blood traitors. Conservatives versus liberals. Traditionalists versus modernists. What would you say you were?” Harry asked, curiously. “Based on what I outlined in my paper.”_

_Riddle looked like he was seriously considering his idea, and then something else came across his face, something more intrigued and excited. He leaned forward again, sipping his wine, letting it dangle dangerously between long fingers._

_“I’m curious about what_ you _have to say. What do you think I am?” Riddle asked._

_Harry sat for a long time, staring down at his food, and then, he looked up. “What kind of lunch is this, Mr. Riddle?”_

_“Humor me, Harry Potter.”_

_Harry swallowed. He nodded once._

_"So. If we were to apply political parties to the wizarding world, the purebloods would be the traditionalists. They wish to preserve the old ways: the caste system, the wealth disparity, and access to certain jobs in the political and economic world," Harry said, slowly. He leaned forward, tapping his fingers against the edge of the table, curious. "And it's not all bad. Their money keeps our economy strong. Our history, the wizarding world's history, is important. The good and the bad. The Muggles have done terrible things to our people. But, so have we to them. And that's where the so-called ‘blood traitors' come in. Purebloods think that ‘blood traitors' are Muggle-loving fools. They support increased access to Muggle goods and Muggle traditions, in the name of inclusivity."_

_“But, what do you think_ I _am?” Riddle insisted._

_Harry shrugged._

_"Neither," he decided. "A centrist who hasn't followed either of those two roads. You're a half-blood, descended from the Gaunt family, and even more so, the noble Slytherin bloodline. That's a lucrative connection for purebloods, except you've recently expressed interest in the idea of the Omniocular project. The one that’s led by a Muggleborn who is intent on having projection tech readied in time for the next World Cup. It’ll make an exclusive, expensive event more accessible.”_

_Riddle nodded his agreement._

_“It’s interesting.”_

_“It is,” Harry agreed. “What I mean to say, though, is that you’re a centrist without any convictions.”_

_Riddle froze in the middle of his sip of wine. Harry swallowed hard as he replayed what he'd just said in his head. He opened his mouth to stutter out an apology, but Riddle shook his head. Slowly, Riddle set his goblet down on the table with a soft bang and he leaned forward. At that moment, he looked more sibilant than he had the entire conversation._

_“Without any convictions?” he asked in his deep, lilting voice. Harry shook his head, staring down at the table. “Come now, Harry Potter. You’re a little lion. Let’s hear you roar, then. Tell me about my lack of convictions.”_

_Harry stammered, “I—I’m not…I don’t mean to_ insult _you, but, you’re so center that no one knows what to think of you. You’re married to Bellatrix Black, a major heiress with parents that are known supremacists, and yet, you don’t strictly adhere to the pureblood agenda. But, like I said, you’re married to Bellatrix Black, so the other side doesn’t trust you either.”_

_“I enjoy my political career,” Riddle drawled._

_“But, you have to be..._ radical _," Harry said, his eyes bright with excitement. "The wizarding world has been the same for so, so long. And tensions are growing and both sides are polarizing. But, you could bridge that gap. You could be so much."_

_“So you’ve said,” Riddle said through gritted teeth. He was smiling through his anger. Harry flinched away from it, looking down._

Enviable. Beautiful _, he thought._ Formidable.

_He looked up, brashness and ferocity in his bright green eyes. “Well, you asked!”_

_Harry had shouted. He hadn’t meant to shout. But, he didn’t back down. He just glared across the table at the other man, waiting for his reaction. Harry drew his inner lip into his mouth, unthinking. His chest felt too small to hold his lungs, but he wouldn’t back down. He watched Riddle process what he said and then the other man leaned back in his chair._

_“You’re brave. To say that to me,” Riddle allowed, staring at him over his goblet of elvish wine._

_Harry sipped his own and held back his wince—he still wasn’t used to the bitter swell of wine on his tongue, and he wouldn’t let Tom Riddle of all people know that._

_“Thank you,” Harry preened with a wide smile._

_Riddle raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t a compliment.”_

_Harry scoffed, unable to keep it in. He paused, waiting for Riddle’s reaction, but he leaned forward, intrigued by his very reaction._

_“What?” Harry snapped._

_“You’re not...afraid of me.”_

_Harry couldn’t help but smile. He leaned forward too until he could see the flecks of brown in burgundy. “Should I be, Mr. Riddle?”_

_Riddle stared at him for a long time, waiting for Harry to crack. But, Harry didn't. He stared back at the man like he was any other person. And then, Riddle pulled back, gave first, falling back to lazily sit in his seat. He drained his wine and set the goblet down with a heavy clink. His lips were stained with it._

_“You should. But, you aren’t,” Riddle said. “You...impress me, Harry Potter.”_

_Harry kept himself still in his seat, refusing to scream for joy. He leaned forward in his seat, tucking back into his food as they discussed arbitrary news. Riddle asked him questions about his studies, and Harry was eager to answer them, eager to impress this man that was already impressed by him. This man was the key to his future, and Euphie had always warned him to look for keys and locks._

_When the lunch came to an end, after Riddle had drained the last dredges of his tea, after not eating anything at all, Harry was the first to stand. He grabbed his papers, clutching them to his chest._

_“May I escort you home?” Riddle asked with a raised eyebrow._

_“I know how to Apparate,” Harry said, uncertainly._

_Riddle snorted, but said nothing else, shaking his head._

_“I mean, I—my father is already here. It’s unnecessary. He had his own business to take care of,” Harry said. He leaned forward to pull out his own money pouch, but Riddle raised his hand and shook his head, laying out a tiny scroll of parchment. “What’s that?”_

_“This, Harry Potter, is a business lunch, making it a business expense. You don’t need to worry about money when you dine in my company. Allow me to escort you back to your father, then,” Riddle said. He didn’t seem like he’d take no for an answer this time, so Harry simply nodded and allowed himself to be lead from the restaurant. He smiled at the maître d', but Riddle just ignored them._

_“I don’t need an escort,” Harry added as they walked side by side. He had to look up at Riddle, which was rather new for him. The man was even taller than Ron. “I’m seventeen, you know.”_

_“We wouldn’t want someone taking advantage of you,” Riddle drawled._

_“I’m seventeen,” Harry insisted, voice even harder._

_Riddle snorted. As they walked down Heaven Alley, he waved his wand. Suddenly, everything around Harry was just a tad more muffled, drowned out. He looked around, wide-eyed, and then flushed when he caught Riddle’s amused gaze._

_“And you’re green. Young, pretty, and impressionable, and we’re surrounded by wolves,” Riddle said. He didn’t seem to notice how Harry flushed darker._ Pretty, _Tom Riddle called him. The other man said it like it was nothing. “Did you notice our audience?”_

_Harry startled out of his own thoughts. “Audience?” he asked._

_“An Advocate clerk and a junior Auror. Perhaps, just out to lunch, but they saw_ me _. They’ll report back to their superiors. They’ll want to know what my business is with James Potter’s son,” Riddle drawled. He leaned over, his lips a breath away from the shell of Harry’s ear. “You made quite the impression last month.”_

_“On you or everyone else?” Harry retorted to keep himself from biting his own tongue._

_Riddle drew back, something shuttering over his face to dampen his previous amusement. He said nothing as they met the crossroads where Diagon Alley, Knockturn Alley, and Heaven Alley all met. Riddle scanned the crowd and relaxed when he caught sight of someone. Harry followed his gaze and smiled when he saw his own father. Riddle waved his wand and the noise encroached again, deafening for just a moment before Harry grew used to it._

_“Dad!” Harry called and then immediately regretted it. He cast a cautious, embarrassed look at Riddle, but he still looked more interested in his father._

_James turned at the call and his lips curled into a grin that faltered when he caught sight of Harry’s companion. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. He began his approach, tearing himself away from the Quality Quidditch Supplies storefront._

_“Well, Harry Potter, it has been quite a pleasure,” Riddle drawled and then he took Harry’s hand and dragged it to his lips, pressing a swift kiss to his knuckles._

_Harry’s eyes widened and he snatched his hand back, breath catching in his throat. He could taste his own heart on his tongue. He trembled, feeling the ghost of the man’s lips against his skin._

_“And, um, you as well, Mr. Riddle,” Harry whispered._

_“Harry—” James called as he finally met them._

_But, Riddle plowed on, as if he hadn’t heard him: “Harry Potter, you have impressed me. I’d like to offer you a job.”_

_Harry’s pounding heart stopped. “What?”_

_Riddle smirked. “I’d like to offer you a job as my second assistant. Starting next week. This will primarily be a correspondence role, of course. But, if you impress me, you might get a promotion once you graduate. How does that sound?”_

_James jumped in immediately. “Mr. Riddle, I’m glad that Harry...impressed you, but he’s still a student. And he has to look at his other options, like the Auror—”_

_“I’ll do it,” Harry breathed. He held out his hand, beaming. “I accept.”_

_Riddle’s eyes widened with triumph._

* * *

 

“Congratulations on your new appointment, Auror Potter,” Tom said, easily as he swaggered up to Amelia Bones and the newest Head of the Aurors. While Bones looked rather charmed by Tom’s entrance, Potter looked the exact opposite, his expression souring almost immediately even as his wife, Evans, elbowed him in the side.

"And to you, Mr. Riddle," Potter said grudgingly. And then he perked up, leaning forward. "Not the appointment you were expecting, but a worthy one, all the same."

Evans elbowed her husband even harder in the side, hard enough for him to wince.

Tom didn’t let his charming smile drop for an even instant even as he thought, _If you weren’t Harry’s father, I’d slit you open from groin to mouth._

“No, but there’s still time,” Tom said winningly.

Bones laughed, nodding. Even when she laughed, she looked stern, in some way. “That’s the spirit, Riddle. Merlin, can you imagine. Did you know that Riddle was expected to either enter the Auror Academy or be a _teacher_? It was good of the Headmaster to turn you down. You’re made for politics, aren’t you?”

Tom fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose as Amelia Bones _revealed_ him. Potter looked thrilled. Tom only continued to smile even more politely at Potter and thought, _I’m fucking him, you know. Your son. Every chance I get. The things I could tell you about the way he tastes._ [2]

“I was always an overachiever. Much like your son in that aspect,” Tom said, inclining his head specifically towards Evans. He would never think Potter was the brains of the operation, and if anything, Harry’s political savviness has been inherited from the formidable Euphemia Rowle, never anything like a _Potter._

“Yes, Harry has always been _busy_ ,” Evan said, sweetly, finally contributing to the conversation. Even as she sounded sweet, Tom was well-versed in hearing the caution that most people regarded him with. They always seemed confused by it, why the hair on the back of their necks stood up in his presence, but Evans was aware. Smart woman. “And you keep him ever busy. I haven’t seen my boy at my dinner table in weeks, Mr. Riddle.”

"I don't think my office could function without Harry if I'm being honest, Ms. Evans," Tom said, nodding to himself.

“Potter,” James Potter interjected, voice hard. Evans’ nose wrinkled and she elbowed her husband again.

“He’s right. Lily Potter,” Evans corrected.

“I apologize,” Tom said without meaning it even a little bit. “Your son has told me intriguing things about your research. He says that you are currently researching the connection between chemistry and Potions, was it?”

Evans looked shocked. Bones’ brow furrowed as she said, “Chemistry?”

Evans leaned forward, eager, but Tom cut in.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s a scientific discipline derived by Muggles. It involves elements and compounds. I will defer to Mrs. _Potter_ on the specifics, however,” Tom said. He felt a flash of victory as Evans beamed at him, that suspicion sliding away like oil as she drew closer and went to enlighten Bones on her research.

Tom looked over the two women to catch Potter’s eyes. Potter looked murderous.

Tom didn’t deprive himself of this; he smiled.

The orphanage had had its own brand of diplomacy—shake with your right hand, but hold a knife in your left.

“Sir!” Potter shouted, suddenly, standing almost at military attention.

Tom’s gaze only needed to glide over Bones and Evans’ expressions as well to know who it was that stood behind him. He turned on his heel and regarded the newest Minister up close.

Rufus Scrimgeour looked uncertain and out of his element at the inaugural ball, all in his honor. From the moment that Tom had seen him, practically swallowed by the swell of aristocracy and bureaucracy, Tom knew that Scrimgeour would not flourish in situations such as these. He lacked the charisma necessary for the current state of things. Sure, the man had ambition; one had to climb their way into the possession of Minister. But, there was something off.

Rufus Scrimgeour had the look of a Minister for Magic meant for wartime.

It almost made Tom want to make a war _for_ him. Then, at least, this would be more interesting.

“Potter, Madame Bones,” Scrimgeour said, gruffly. And then, he turned to Tom, a little more muted now. He offered his hand. “Riddle.”

Tom smiled and took it, giving a sharp shake. “Minister,” he returned.

“Let us share a Firewhiskey, I think,” Scrimgeour said and Tom nodded, allowing himself to be lead towards the drinks, where a familiar pink bow was shimmering.

Dolores Umbridge looked up, like a leech that had smelled blood, and she tore herself away from her conversation with Bartemius Crouch.

“Minister,” she said, cheerfully. “I was just speaking to Bartemius about—”

Scrimgeour lifted his hand. “Madame, Riddle and I are having a drink. We’ll return shortly,” he insisted.

Before he even had to make the request, the barmaid leaned forward, flashing her smile and her tits at both men, as she poured them two Firewhiskeys neat. Scrimgeour passed Tom his drink and the pair made a swift exit, leaving Umbridge sputtering. Tom watched Scrimgeour from the corner of his eye, waiting for the man to start, but he didn’t speak until they had passed through several doors and out in the back gardens, relatively unseen.

Finally, Scrimgeour turned to Tom with a look on his face that tasted like grudging regret.

“Tom, I’d like to speak with you about your new appointment—” Scrimgeour began.

“You promised me Undersecretary,” Tom said pleasantly. He stared out at the gardens; they were, in fact, lovely. Lush and green, marked with pixies and fairies, trapped in mason jars. The fountain in the center was less magical. Mundane. Tom sipped the whiskey, slowly.

"You are still young," Scrimgeour sighed, as if Tom wasn't almost forty. "There is still time for you rise in the ranks. I imagine that one day, you'll be Minister. The youngest Minister for Magic, I'm sure."

Tom hummed. Well, there was still time for that.

“You’ll be good for the IMC. You’re charismatic. _Pragmatic_. And strategic,” Scrimgeour summarized. He turned to Tom fully and nodded at him. “I will need you in the foreign sphere more than I could ever properly utilize you in the domestic one.”

He wondered which of them had told him that: Umbridge or Fudge.

“You’ll be keeping Fudge as an advisor,” Tom said. He didn’t ask.

Scrimgeour nodded. “The former Minister was unpopular. He didn’t want to leave office. He was forced out. But, keeping him close? It’ll keep me from repeating his mistakes,” Scrimgeour said. He said it with such conviction, like he’d convinced himself, like someone had convinced him, that the answer to everything was k _eep your friends close, keep your enemies closer._

Maybe, that was true.

Maybe, that meant Scrimgeour saw him as a friend.

Tom almost snorted. Scrimgeour was a fool.

“Very well. I will do my very best to serve you, Minister. Everything I do will be in the interest of the Ministry. I will help you make us strong again,” he said.

_I will dismantle every bit of this bureaucracy until it is bones beneath my feet, and rebuild it in my image_ , he didn’t say.

Scrimgeour stared at him with a lion’s eyes for a long time, tawny behind wire-rimmed glasses. He was surveying him, wondering, and Tom didn’t flinch back. He stared, boldly, waiting for the man to accept his offer. And slowly, finally, Scrimgeour extended his hand again.

“Thank you, Riddle,” he said. He simply clasped Tom’s hand this time. When he let go, he drained his glass and used it to gesture back to the doors. “Will you join me again inside?”

Tom nearly nodded, and then, he felt it. Something powerful and familiar, washing over his shoulders like an ill-fitting cloak, like an old memory. Tom stared over at the Minister and he shook his head.

“In a moment,” he said.

Scrimgeour accepted it easily and, straight-backed and proud, he marched back into the ball, eagerly received by the bureaucratic sycophants. Tom turned back towards the mundane fountain and stared, waiting for him to descend.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“Tom.”

There were few things that irritated Tom more than being addressed by his first name except by a select few. His name being spoken by this man was one of those few things.

Slowly, he turned to Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. For this, he wore no masks. It would be of no use. Dumbledore had always seen past them.

“Headmaster,” he said, inclining his head.

“Enjoying the quiet?” Dumbledore asked. He was wearing the most ridiculous robes, a brash neon purple, decorated with yellow stars that danced across the hem of his robes. They were short enough that Tom could see his socks, an even more shocking orange.

“I was.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “I saw you speaking with our new Minister.”

“Yes. Perhaps with new blood, there’ll be some change,” Tom drawled. His tone spoke to how little he believed that. Even still, Dumbledore chuckled, a soft grandfatherly thing that made Tom want to gouge the man’s eyes out.

“Change?” Dumbledore asked, politely. “Dare I ask what kind of change?”

“The old ways are being forgotten,” Tom warned. This was not the first time a conversation of this nature had been had. He glared at the man.

“And that’s a bad thing? We move away from the time of being ruled by blood supremacy and prejudice—”

“And move in a time where our stagnates instead of developing. Stagnates while the old ways fade. We will be a cultureless people, bound by what? Simply magic?” Tom asked, his lips curled into a sneer.

“Magic is what we all have in common. Magic and love,” Dumbledore said.

He sounded like a Muggle fairytale.

“How will that stimulate our economy? Our policies? Our thinking? All is well, here, isn’t it, Headmaster?” Tom asked through clenched teeth. He leaned forward, irritation buzzing about his head, making the sound of the fairy wings louder in their little glass prisons. “We will die out because you revel in this stagnation. This in-between without confrontation. Soon, something will reach a precipice. I intend to be standing and unburnt when everyone else is caught in the dragon fire.”

Dumbledore seemed to be thinking about it for a long time. And then, he turned fully to Tom and smiled.

“I look forward to working with you, Tom.”

Tom nearly faltered. Sharply, he asked, “What?”

“As the Supreme Mugwump,” Dumbledore said. “I think...that the International Confederation of Wizards would be interested in you. _Very_ interested. You’re different.”

Tom bared his teeth. “Different?”

Dumbledore’s smile grew wider. “I wonder if it’s a good different or a bad one. I’m sure you’ll let me know.”

* * *

 

“Ah, my beautiful grandson.”

“Ah, my formidable Euphie,” Harry said, reaching for Euphemia’s outstretched hands. He took them in his own and stooped down to press a kiss to each of the woman’s cheek. He lingered over her left ear. “Have you heard anything?”

Euphemia laughed, casting a look at one of her older companions, Augusta Longbottom being one of them, and leaned closer. “Perhaps. Pull back now, it’s been ten seconds too long.”

Harry did as he was instructed and he released his grandmother’s hands, turning to her own circle. At Euphemia’s side, Harry always felt more sure of himself, more defended. He was alone at these, separated from his partner in all things politically, in an effort to divide and conquer. He smiled and nodded and did all the things expected of him, but even he could be caught off guard, even after everything he’d been through to get where he was.

Ginny Weasley had caught him off guard.

Being in his grandmother’s presence centered him once more.

He looked at his grandmother’s circle. Augusta Longbottom, a former Auror, looked him up and down, as if searching him for mistakes. Her expression spoke to how she saw his less conservative choice of robes. Next to her was Muriel Prewett, Ron’s great-aunt that he spoke quite disparagingly of, and she looked just as awful as Harry always remembered. She was a gossipy older woman with a beaky nose and bony fingers that used to pinch his cheeks when he was a child. Rounding out the circle was Porpentina Goldstein.

She was different because she wasn’t a pureblood, something that usually made Euphemia flinch with hidden distaste because it was _gauche_ to be a blood supremacist. As far as Harry could tell, Porpentina made the cut—despite being a half-blood _American_ —due to her International Wizarding Order of Merit, which she still would not tell Harry about, even after all these years.

“You look lovelier every time I see you,” Porpentina said, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek. “You know, I have a grandson your age—”

“Isn’t he dating that lovely girl that your husband apprenticed?” Muriel asked, eager to cause gossipy chaos in her wake.

“Yes, well, the girl’s a bit barmy,” Porpentina allowed, raising two silver eyebrows.

“As barmy as your husband,” Augusta interjected. She looked Harry up and down, assessing. “Your grandmother dresses you like a slut.”

Harry cackled. “Do you think so, Madame Longbottom?”

“Now, now, Augusta, you’re only jealous because my Harry is still so young and beautiful,” Euphemia said, pulling him into her side. “You’re a catch, though, boy.”

“I know, Euphie,” Harry said with a smirk. He leaned in, curious. “Now, what are you ladies gossiping about?”

“Discussing how someone as _boring_ as Scrimgeour could get elected,” Muriel harrumphed.

“ ‘Boring’? That’s our illustrious Minister you’re speaking about,” Harry teased, clumsily. Muriel rolled her eyes at him, clearly not putting up with his shit today. Well, then. Harry switched gears, staring at her more seriously. “Madame Prewett, does that mean you didn’t vote him?”

“Oh, I voted for him,” Muriel deadpanned.

“As did I. The House of Rowle will support anyone that isn’t the former Government,” Euphemia agreed, airly. She cast a disdainful look across the ballroom at none other than Madame Umbridge and Cornelius Fudge. Umbridge was staring around with her beady black eyes, and they caught on the group of older women. She made to start towards them, but Euphemia only had to narrow her eyes. “I did _not_ , however, vote for them.”

“Is that the general consensus amongst the Sacred Twenty-Eight?” Harry asked politely.

“Well, we don’t consort with...the likes of some of them,” Muriel said with a poisonous glance to the Malfoys. _That_ Harry could understand. “But, it seems to be that way. Everyone expected your employer to be the Undersecretary.”

“That’s a large change of circumstance, though,” Porpentina said, eager to add to the conversation. “The Minister’s second-in-command to simply his foreign policy mouthpiece. And even if all 22 of the elected had agreed to the changes, it’s still not enough to outweigh the Sacred Twenty-Eight’s majority.”

Harry bared his teeth into something that was more grimace than smile. He felt Euphemia’s finger tighten on his arm. He tempered it into something softer, still with an edge.

“It has to be _them_. The Dark families. Sorry, Euphemia,” Muriel said with a nod. She knew the Rowle family’s past.

“It doesn’t serve them. Fudge never did anything for them,” Augusta scoffed.

Euphemia hummed. She tapped Harry on his wrist, discreetly. "Perhaps. But, maybe, they think Riddle will serve them well in the IMC. He isn't just in charge of foreign policy. He's in charge of international trade now, too."

Harry tilted his head towards Euphemia just so, pressing his cheek against her temple in thanks. Euphemia tapped back again: _you’re welcome_.

“Money. How gauche,” Muriel snorted.

“Everything’s about money,” Porpentina insisted.

Harry’s eyes flashed. “Except power,” he couldn’t help but add.

Augusta leaned forward, intrigued. “Money is power,” she said.

Harry’s lips curled into a wider smile. “Money runs dry, one day. It always does,” he said. “ _Power_ is power.”[3]

Harry untangled himself from Euphemia’s arms, moving to step back, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Harry slowly turned and he couldn’t help his smile. He was weak for it.

Tom Riddle had a mask on, a charming smile meant to win over old ladies that weren’t Euphemia Potter, but Harry could see the monster under it. He burned with rage, for some reason, at that moment. He blistered with it.

Harry was weak for that monster.

“Ladies, if you’ll excuse my assistant,” Tom said, his burgundy eyes burning just a little more crimson. He held out his hand to Harry. “I believe I was meant to save you a dance.”

Harry snorted, ignoring the titters of the older women.

He pretended not to notice that Euphemia wasn’t laughing with them.

“Is that an order, sir?” Harry asked.

Tom rolled his eyes. “If I say ‘yes’ will you promise not to prolong this?” Tom demanded.

Harry turned to the older women and nodded. “Well, duty calls. I’ll speak to you later, Euphie.”

Euphemia’s eyes flashed. “Yes, we will,” she said, severely.

Harry pretended not to notice and took Tom’s hand. They turned away from one another and the pair walked onto the dance floor. Harry’s lips quirked up at the corner when he saw the path clear for them, all eyes on them. He smirked even wider when he saw his petty school rival, Draco Malfoy’s expression sour.

Harry and Tom turned to one another, and Harry very carefully placed one hand on Tom’s shoulder. He felt the man’s hand slide around, settling on the small of his back, just shy of being dangerous in public. And then, they began.

“I was joking, you know,” Harry said as he was waltzed across the floor. Gracefully, he allowed himself to be dipped, spun out and then in again. He gave Tom a warning look. “This is unnecessary. You haven’t danced with your wife yet.”

“They’re used to it. I always dance with you at least once. Let us not deprive Spellbound of their photos,” Tom said. He looked down at Harry and then paused, raising an eyebrow. “Do you have heels on your boots?”

“What makes you ask?” Harry said plainly.

“You’re taller than you were earlier,” Tom accused. He rolled his eyes at Harry’s grin and then dipped him suddenly, just deep enough to alarm Harry. When he dragged the young man back up, Harry was glaring.

“That wasn’t funny,” he snapped.

“It was for me?” Tom retorted, just as fast. He dragged Harry closer. “I spoke with Scrimgeour. He intends to have me as an ally. He keeps his enemies closer than his friends.”

“And he sees you as a friend?” Harry said. He laughed as he was spun out and then back in again. They swirled in circles, watching one another. Tom’s lips twitched at the meanness in his voice. It only made Harry smile wider. “You’re angry. But, not about that.”

“Dumbledore.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “What about Dumbledore?” he drawled. “Dumbledore doesn’t _matter_. He’s a teacher.”

“He’s the head of the Wizengamot,” Tom reminded him.

Harry huffed a laugh. "If you think he has any influence over the Sacred Twenty-Eight, you're a fool," Harry whispered. He leaned in until his lips were nearly against the man's ear. "I don't spread my legs for fools."

“No, only for me,” Tom snarled. “He’s the Supreme Mugwump.”

Harry laughed again. “The International Confederation—”

“Harry, we will not underestimate again.”

Harry fell silent almost immediately. He stared up at Tom, his brow furrowing for a long moment. The man was right. They had gotten into the situation because they had underestimated how much Umbridge and Fudge would do to keep in power. They had overestimated how much Scrimgeour could think like a bureaucrat instead of an excited Auror. They had underestimated the ties of Bellatrix to the rest of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

Harry glanced over Tom’s shoulder at the man’s wife. Bellatrix Black watched them with narrowed eyes, her purple lips twisted into a forced smile.

Harry _beamed_ at her.

“You’re right,” Harry acknowledged. Every time they spun, he made sure his eyes landed on Bellatrix, again and again. “We’ll be careful. About everything. We will plot and plan, and we will win.”

Tom smirked. “As you’ve said.”

“It’s you and me, baby,” Harry laughed into his ear. He pulled back, waggling his eyebrows like a fool. “Us against the world.”

“You’re a child,” Tom drawled as the waltz drew to a close and he untangled himself from Harry.

The pair bowed to one another, and then, they drew apart, turning in opposite directions.

Two sharks in the water and they both smelled blood.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] House of Cards, Season 4, Episode 6
> 
> [2] Scandal, Season 3, Episode 10
> 
> [3] Game of Thrones, Season 2, Episode 1
> 
> \----
> 
> I don't know why but this just basically fell out. Like the story just spilled from fingertips. I'm super excited about this fic. I'm using it as a palate cleanser for the original fiction I've just finished up so I can start the next thing. Anyway, here's this chapter, please leave a review, and I hope to post another chapter soon, within the next week or so.


	4. Chapter Four

 

_~~*~~_

_“If you don’t like how the table is set,_

_Turn over the table.” [1]_

_~~*~~_

Harry waited for Tom outside his door, lips pursed as he readied himself for what felt like a battle. He'd briefly debated entering the office, but the moment he had touched the knob, it has warmed, threateningly. That alone had set Harry on edge, making him prepare for Tom's warpath. He reached for his pocket watch again, glancing down at the face again and pursed his lips. He rapped hard on the wood.

“Mr. Riddle, your—” he began, just a little more irate than necessary.

Before he could finish, the door swung open. Tom stood there for just a moment, straightening the lapels of his robes, looking down his nose at Harry. Harry pursed his lips.

"You're late," Harry snapped, unable to help the accusatory tone in his voice.

Tom looked unimpressed. “I’m the Head of the department. We start when I say we start,” he said, a warning in his voice. He swept past Harry, almost dismissive and it only made Harry angrier.

“That’s not what my schedule says,” he snapped, following after him. “You have a meeting with the exec members of the IMC, a lunch meeting with Bagman, and a briefing meeting with the rest of the heads to discuss the budget. We don’t have a _budget_ yet—”

“Bagman?” Tom asked as they swept towards the lift. One cursory dark look made everyone else waiting scarce, and they all stepped back, allowing an unnecessary berth.

It took all of Harry’s patience not to roll his eyes.

“The World Cup is going to be in Britain next year,” Harry insisted.

Tom hummed and stepped into the lift. “Move the meeting with Bagman until next week.”

“ _What_? But, this takes _planning,_ Tom. You can’t just ask me to rearrange your schedule and Ludo Bagman’s schedule. You’re the Head of the IMC now. You _should’ve_ been Undersecretary. Everyone is wondering why. If you’re seen shirking on meetings—”

Tom held up a hand. Harry nearly swallowed his tongue.

"Love," Tom began, and Harry twitched at the moniker because he knew what that meant. Crossing his arms over his chest, Harry watched as Tom's lips curled back into an irritated sneer. The man snarled, "I don't need to be micromanaged."

Almost immediately, Harry snapped back, “Without being micromanaged, you wouldn’t get anything done.”

Tom regarded him for a long moment and then pulled his wand. Harry’s eyes narrowed and he held himself just a tad stiffer, wondering if he would have to pull his wand as well. Tom took a step closer and Harry slid backward, pressing his back against the cool metal wall. Tom continued forward, eyes never shifting.

“Is there anything else you wanted to say?” Tom asked, his voice just a hair too soft.

“You don’t scare me,” Harry snapped. _Not anymore_ , he didn’t add.

Tom’s lips twitched into a humorless smile. “I know, love.” He waved his wand and Conjured what looked like a copy of the Daily Prophet. He turned the pages, quickly, searching for something and when he did, he folded the paper and offered it to Ginny. “Maybe you should micromanage your mouth.”

Harry’s heart caught in his throat as he looked at the tiny words. It was barely a corner of the page, more speculative gossip than anything else, and yet—there was his name next to a quote. Next to his words. Words that he hadn’t meant to share at all, and yet, she had made rage rise in the pit of him. He looked up at Tom with wide eyes, and he burned at the triumph reflected back at him.

“It was a mistake,” Harry said through gritted teeth.

“There is no room for mistakes in our future endeavours. Do you understand that?” Tom asked.

“I _know_ ,” Harry hissed. “It’s not even—”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s speculative. You still said something without us having a discussion.”

Harry deflated and he tilted his head back, slamming it back against the wall. Tom reached forward, cupping his hand over the tender part of Harry’s skull. He pressed hard and Harry already felt a building headache when Tom began to rub at the sore spot, soothing him before it could hurt more than it already did.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered softly.

Tom snorted, leaning forward. He pressed his forehead against Harry’s and whispered against his lips, “I know. Try not to let it happen again.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “It _won’t_.”

The lift started to move again, but Tom didn't move back. He just stared down at Harry. He didn't tell him that Tom already had a plan to correct the issue. He didn't reassure the younger man, didn't pet his face and kiss the worry from his lips. No, Tom would let him fester in guilt and rage, and would lick it from his mouth later when he told Harry that this could be advantageous.

Ginny Weasley and her childish grudge could _be_ something.

But, Tom won’t tell him. He would let Harry get there on his own.

The cool voice of a woman echoed, “ _Level Ten, Wizengamot Courtrooms and Conference Rooms **.**_ ”

Tom stepped back, smoothly, and Harry was still pressed against the wall when Tom left without a look backward. Tom strode down the hallway, nodding when he heard murmured words of greeting. He could hear Harry scrambling after him, going through the stack of parchment that he had and Tom only turned to look at his assistant when he reached the door to the conference room. Harry lifted his chin and solemnly offered the agenda.

“Here,” Harry mumbled.

Tom’s lips twitched. Even after two years, Harry still vyed for his approval.

“Very good,” Tom murmured. Harry’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m not a dog,” he whispered.

Tom’s smile widened into something vicious and he plucked the agenda from Harry’s hands and turned back towards the door. “There’s no need to come in to take notes. I’ll just advise a Pensieve.”

He heard the sharp intake of breath, tasted Harry's realization that he was being punished, and then he swept away. Tom glanced down at his agenda and acknowledged—only to himself—that it hit every point he wanted to make, quite clearly. Harry was young and made mistakes, but that didn't mean he wasn't good at what he did. He was nearly irreplaceable. Soon, that nearly would disappear, Tom thought.

Tom entered the conference room with little fanfare.

The other executive members of the Department of International Magical Cooperation had never quite registered to Tom. They had been wholly unimpressive, unambitious, and unconscionably irritating. A gaggle of regrettable children, if he were to be honest.

And yet, the co-heads of the International Magical Trading Standards Body and the newly promoted head of the International Magical Office of Law were sitting like they were readying for a firing squad.

It almost made Tom smile.

Cicero Batt and Olivia Grouse were co-heads of the International Magical Trading Standards Body, and Tom didn’t need to use Legilimency to know that the two were fucking, and _that_ was why they could very rarely function as a unit. But, separately, they were probably useful. At least, Grouse probably was.

Tom’s replacement in the International Magical Office of Law was a young man that had probably worked directly beneath him, but he’d very rarely gave him the time of day. He had Harry to cater to his needs. Jasper Gudgeon flushed under Tom’s gaze, and Tom’s lips did twitch. Gudgeon’s cheeks grew brighter.

An admirer. _Perfect._

“Thank you for being on time,” Tom purred softly, as he swept through the room and sat at the head of the conference table, putting himself at least two seats away from any of his new underlings.

“You’re late,” Batt stuttered and then seemed to think better of himself.

Tom’s eyes narrowed. A curse twitched on the tip of his tongue. He bit down hard. “I am the head of this department. I say if we’re late or not. I say we’re not,” Tom said, his voice soft and creeping, like venom. Batt fell back in his seat, almost ashen under Tom’s gaze.

“Mr. Riddle,” Grouse began uncertainly and when Tom turned an approving stare onto her, she straightened, “have you met with the Minister about policy yet? There are a few things that should be noted before you speak with him, specifically about our new standards potion imports—”

Tom lifted a hand and looked down at the agenda that Harry had given him. It was structured much like the meetings that he used to attend when they were led by Artemisia Price, and yet, underneath it, in Harry's chicken scratch, the words, ‘ _Flip the Table’_ , were the most prominent. Everything else faded away. He allowed himself one tilt of his lips before he looked up.

“That will be something I do alone,” Tom said.

Grouse’s eyes widened.

“B-but, sir, we’re here to consult—” Grouse began.

Tom nodded. “Consult, yes. But, I very much doubt that I’ll be taking your consultation into consideration,” he said. He turned to Gudgeon. “Tell me, how is my office?”

“G-good, sir. If we could schedule a meeting...I’d like to know your methods for managing your office. Especially since we must nominate seats for the—” Gudgeon said. Every moment he spoke, his voice grew stronger, like he was coming into his own.

No, that wouldn’t do.

“Good,” Tom agreed with a nod, cutting him off. He looked over at all of them. “I think it would be best to let you know that I will be evaluating your performance over the next few months.”

Grouse’s eyes widened. “W-what? That wasn’t just a sound bite?”

“No,” Tom sighed. He let his cheek fall into his hand and he looked at them from underneath long eyelashes, lips curling into a smile. “Don’t get comfortable.”

His smile dropped.

* * *

 

Bellatrix sipped her wine, squinting against the glare of Heaven Alley, her eyes searching the velvet-rich crowd for her drinking companion of the day. Her notebook cradled in her lap, she tapped the edge of her quill against it, and then titled the page with a flourish: ‘THE NOBLE HOUSE OF LESTRANGE’.

She didn’t have to wait long. Bellatrix heard the telltale pop of Apparition and when she looked up again, Rodolphus was rushing over, checking his pocket watch. Bellatrix checked her own, and her lips twitched. He was exactly on time.

That said something about a man.

“Madame Black-Ri—” he began and Bellatrix held up her hand.

“I thought we decided we’d be friendly, Rodolphus,” she said, and the way she wrapped her tongue around his name, her smile widened at the taste of it. Full-bodied and sweet like her favorite drink.

Rodolphus nodded his agreement and he reached for hand, leaning over it to press a polite kiss against her knuckles. It turned less polite as he lingered, and then, he seemed to catch himself, dropping her hand like it was hot. He settled down across from her, eyes widening. He searched her face for a reaction, but Bellatrix only showed her teeth.

That seemed to soothe him more than a girlish blush ever could.

Not that Bellatrix would’ve done so. She hadn’t blushed out of anything but rage in years.  
“Bellatrix, I’m sorry. I was caught up in a previous appointment,” he said.

“Oh, whatever for?” she asked.

Rodolphus pursed his lips as he looked over the drink menu and then tapped his wand against his selection. He looked up. “There is a burgeoning interest in the history of our world from all over. Talks of a wizarding museum in Scotland. Not too far from Hogwarts, honestly,” he said. Rodolphus tilted his head, curious. “I wouldn’t be surprised if someone reaches out to you as a consult for an exhibit on pureblood culture.”

Bellatrix pursed her lips. “It depends on the owners, I suppose. Whether they’d like to cast pureblood culture in a positive or negative light,” Bellatrix retorted.

Rodolphus snorted, nodding. “Too true.”

"Do tell me, I know very little about magical architecture. How did you become involved in the field?" Bellatrix asked, her quill poised over her paper. Rodolphus' lips twitched into a smile as a short glass of knotgrass mead appeared in front of the man.

“I had quite the interest in four subject matters that _no one_ is interested in: Arithmancy, Runes, History of Magic, and Art. During my career meeting, Professor Slughorn bragged about knowing someone or the other, and then, well,” Rodolphus said. He sipped his drink, waving his hand as if that would complete his thought. Bellatrix supposed it did.

Nothing about this man was constructed for the conversation. Rodolphus Lestrange was awkward, in an odd way. Despite being the head of a noble House, there wasn’t anything snobbish about him or calculating. He was so startlingly real that Bellatrix was thrown off-kilter by him.

“Does your job allow you free time?” Bellatrix asked.

“Not very much,” Rodolphus said.

Bellatrix hummed. “Is that why you abstain from Wizengamot votes?”

Rodolphus looked surprised to be called out and then, he smiled, shrugging one-shouldered. “I abstain because I don’t care.”

Bellatrix leaned back in her seat, unable to help her raised eyebrows.

“You don’t care about the state of our republic?”

“You mean our bureaucracy?” Rodolphus asked. “I’m sorry, Bellatrix, I know your husband is a politician, but our government is a mess. Nothing gets down without several referendums and votes.”

“That’s the symptom, not the cause,” Bellatrix returned, her voice just a little sharper. “Tom wants to end that.”

Rodolphus hummed, his lips curling into a smile. “Well, I’m glad for that.”

Bellatrix huffed out a sharp laugh because if only he knew. And as she looked him in the eye, she paused because he did. There was something in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before, something like respect for a fellow Slytherin. Like he knew that there were no lengths that Tom wouldn’t go to.

“So, Rodolphus,” she said, dragging out his name, the name that tasted like Firewhiskey, “tell me, what do you think about the Sacred Twenty-Eight? What can you tell me about the illustrious house of Lestrange?”

* * *

 

**ONE YEAR, TEN MONTHS AGO**

_Harry,_

_I will start this by finally commenting on the essay that you enclosed two letters ago. I have had much time to consider the work and I must give compliments where they are due. Your work on the political position of magical creatures is quite interesting. The concept of representative politics is not new to the wizarding world, but clearly, you are thinking even further than our current position. I would recommend submitting your essay to the opinion section of the Daily Prophet. Perhaps there are other like-minded individuals._

_But, no. I’d much rather keep your mind to myself. There is no need for people to know about the brilliance that I have claimed for my own. Your brilliance is ours to wield, partnered with my own._

_I have also decided that I will have need of you this Samhain. It has come to my attention that your grandmother frequents the high society Samhain events each year, but you have rarely gone out of respect for your Muggleborn mother. I would implore you to attend this year. It will be good to establish your presence and new position as my assistant. I have a wish to introduce you to a number of my associates so that the transition will be much easier. I have already begun to spoke of the ways that you have impressed me, namely your notes on the proposal for my adjustment of the latest creature legislation to bring it in accordance with international law. You have much to learn as you did not take into consideration Statute 65.7c._

_But, you have time to learn. I find that I have patience enough to teach you._

_My mentee of sorts claims that you have bewitched me in some way. It is a jest that I do not take lightly, but, perhaps, he is right, in a manner of speaking. I find myself looking forward to your consultation on my ideas, for only you understand my full vision of the future. You do not question the purity of my ambitions, for it doesn’t matter, when you seek results as much as I._

_I do not know what I would do without your commentary, my lovely assistant. My office fails me. I expect that you will not, in your thirst to prove something. You should pray that you do not._

_Tom M. Riddle_

**_Head of the International Magical Office of Law_ **

 

_“Harry, you’re always working now.”_

_Harry didn’t look up from his correspondence as he began to pen a response to the man. His heart fluttered in his throat as his gaze lingered on the word ‘lovely’. Tom Riddle was an interesting man, a mix of flattery and derision. He was both equally attracted and irritated, caught between the two competing reactions._

_"Tom Riddle is probably a demanding boss, Ron. You should be pursuing your future as actively as Harry is," Hermione said firmly. Her back straightened as she prepared to lecture the young man. "You know, Ron, this summer I interned with the Goblin Liaison Office and it was really enlightening—"_

_“You can’t intern at the Auror Office,” Ron whinged._

_“There must be_ some  _other way—”_

_Harry sighed, knowing he wasn’t going to get anything done with their back and forth. He looked over at the two, warily. “There really isn’t a way to prepare for being an Auror besides studying for your NEWTS and TOADS,” Harry said._

_Ron looked victorious. “See, Harry says—wait, what are TOADS?” [2]_

_Harry’s lips curled into a grin and he laughed._

_“It’s what you take at the end of the Academy. Test of Offensive and Defensive Spells,” Harry said. Ron looked appalled at the very idea of taking_ more _exams, and it only made Harry laugh louder and harder. He shook his head, leaning back in his seat. “See what I mean, Ron? Why would I want to take more tests? Do I look like Hermione?”_

_Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “What is_ that _supposed to mean?”_

_“Come on, Hermione, you do like tests,” Harry teased._

_Ron snorted. "Have you ever seen her pre-test prep routine. She sharpens the tip of at least four quills and brings back-up ink. As if they haven't made never-ending inkwells," Ron laughed. He grunted when Hermione smacked him in the arm with her heavy book, eyes narrowed._

_“I’ll have you know that it is against the rules to use non-standard ink—” Hermione said._

_“Come on, Hermione, no one follows those rules,” Harry snorted._

_Hermione scoffed. “I would think that_ you _would care a little bit more about rules, Harry Potter.”_

_“Now, what’s that—” Harry began, but before he could even get his whole question out, the compartment door slid open with a violent bang._

_The trio looked up and was instantly set on edge as they looked at the interlopers._

_Draco Malfoy had changed very little since Harry’s first trip on the train to Hogwarts. He was still pointy-faced with hair pale as snow, his thin lips permanently curled into a sneer. His grey eyes were like flinty stone and he swaggered in, forever flanked by his two baboon-like goons, Crabbe and Goyle, two pairs of beady eyes pressed deep into pale, doughy faces. Goyle seemed to have developed a jaw over the summer, but the same couldn’t be said for Crabbe who still looked as ugly and horrible as ever._

_“If it isn’t the Weasley, the Mudblood, and_ Perfect _Potter,” Malfoy hissed._

_Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Keep that filthy name out of your mouth,” he warned, sharp and cold._

_It was rare for Malfoy to use that word anywhere Harry could hear it, and Malfoy seemed to remember himself, pink spots developing on his high, sharp cheekbones. Harry saw Hermione shudder just a little from the corner of his eye._

_"How was your summer? Spent searching through trash for those robes, Weasley? They look new, don't they?" Malfoy barked._

_Ron’s eyes narrowed. “Shut your fucking mouth or I’ll hex you.”_

_“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Malfoy said and he puffed out his chest. “You may want to watch yourselves. My father—”_

_“Who cares about your father’s nepotism,” Hermione snapped, falling back into her seat, already fed up with Malfoy’s posturing. Malfoy looked furious at her quick dismissal. “Don’t you ever think that you should grow up, Malfoy?”_

_Harry and Ron exchanged shocked glances._

_“How dare you—”_

_Hermione sat up again, eyes flashing. “We’re all seventeen. Adults. You, showing up here to taunt us, is immature. Next year, Ron will be training to be an Auror. I’ll be working in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Harry will be working for Tom Riddle.”_

_Malfoy paled further, and his eyes flashed as he turned to glare at Harry. His eyes flit down to the letters spread over the seat, and he seemed to recognize the penmanship._

_“Tom Riddle is my uncle. Why would he hire_ you _?” Malfoy hissed._

_“Because I’m good at what I do,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “The door is just behind you, Malfoy. All you have to do is turn around.”_

_Malfoy sputtered for a moment before he turned and stormed out, Crabbe and Goyle following after him after a round of non-threatening knuckle-cracking. Ron turned to Hermione, eyes wide._

_“You are a wonder, woman,” he said, leaning over to press a kiss to her cheek._

_Hermione rolled her eyes, a secret smile playing on her lips. Harry snorted, leaning back into his seat as he considered his response to Riddle._

_“What are you writing about?” Hermione asked curiously._

_Harry hummed, pressing the end of his quill to his lips. “He...heaps compliments, but they don’t_ feel _like compliments. They feel like expectations. I just need to meet them.”_

_Before Hermione could ask for specifics, the door slid open again. This time, none of the trio was surprised or worried about the new entrant. Harry smiled easily at Ginny Weasley as she flitted into the compartment and sat down, roughly shoving his letters to the side. He gathered them carefully, settling them in his lap._

_“Hey,” Ginny greeted, relaxing back into the seat._

_“And where’ve you been?” Ron asked, gazing roving over her._

_“With Dean, of course,” Ginny said with a wink._

_Ron's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything. He knew better now. After he'd met Ginny's Bat-Bogey Hex for the first time, he knew not to talk about her choices._

_“How was_ your  _summer, Ginny?” Hermione asked._

_Ginny puffed, grinning over at Harry, slyly. "Been practicing for Quidditch. Hear that, Captain?" Ginny teased._

_Harry snorted. “I hear,” he acknowledged. “I don’t know why you’d practice. You’re already the fastest Chaser at Hogwarts.”_

_“Sure, but I want to be in the league. I’ve got to be faster than the fastest Chaser at Hogwarts,” Ginny said. She leaned forward, a playful smile on her face as she batted at his shoulder. “I’ve got be faster than_ you _.”_

_Harry’s smile widened. “Oh?”_

_“The Seeker is always fast. Maybe I want to try out for Seeker this year,” Ginny teased. She shook her head, leaning back in her chair and casting an amused look at Ron. “Maybe_ I’ll _be the better Seeker.”_

_Ron snorted, shaking his head. “Hear that, Harry? Sounds like a challenge.”_

_The compartment broke into laughter._

_All of them laughed, except Harry._

_Harry’s smile widened until it was a grimace, the glint of his teeth like the gnashing of a wolf._

* * *

 

**_POSSIBLE RESTRUCTURE FOR THE DEPARTMENT OF INTERNATIONAL MAGICAL COOPERATION?_ **

****

Her name was barely there, the letters already fading, losing importance amongst the other swirling text. It was tiny, but the byline existed and just its existence set him on edge. Tom’s smugness reverberated in his mind, alongside with the meanness of his smile—proof that Harry had fucked up because Tom was never _mean_. Not to him, at least. Maybe to others, but never him. Harry had never given him a reason to look at him like that.

And it was _her_ fault. Ginny _fucking_ Weasley.

Harry ground his teeth, squirming with fury. He could feel Penelope’s anxiety climbing so he paused, taking a deep breath, and forcing a smile upon his face as he turned to look at his assistant. That only seemed to unnerve her further, seeing all of the teeth in his mouth. Harry decided to just frown instead, taking another deep breath.

“Harry?” Penelope asked uncertainly.

Harry shook his head. “I made a mistake.”

“Is it really so bad?” Penelope asked. “You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true!”

Harry shook his head, crossing his arms. He hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true. That didn’t mean he was supposed to say it. He swallowed hard, thinking of the condescension that had filled Tom’s voice, the look in his eyes. Harry hated that, his hand clenching tight, crumpling the Daily Prophet. He whipped out his wand and with a hiss, it burst into flames. Penelope jumped, staring at him with wide eyes.

Harry had forgotten she was there.

He looked up at her, his lips curling into a false smile. "The summer's almost over, Penelope. Tell me, who would you recommend a full-time offer?" Harry asked.

“In Mr. Riddle’s office or International Magical Law?” Penelope asked. She was still staring at him like she expected him to set her on fire too. Harry tried to relax his smile, but she only seemed to stiffen even more.

“Either,” Harry said, relaxing into his seat.

Penelope shrugged. “Many of them aren’t meant for policy work. They’re bored with the research involved. They don’t seem to care.”

Harry hummed. “What do they care about?”

“Change,” Penelope said with a shrug. “Sometimes. There are a few though. They talk a lot about the lack of change in the bureaucracy of the Ministry of Magic. They kinda sound like you.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“Who?” Harry said, straightening.

Penelope pursed her lips. “Their names are Astoria Greengrass, Colin Creevey, and Romilda Vane.”

* * *

There was something _right_ about sitting in the Minister for Magic’s offices. Sitting at the round table along with the other heads felt long overdue, and by their appreciative gazes, some thought the same as he did. There was very little that could sour Tom’s mood besides Dolores Umbridge who sat exactly at Scrimgeour’s right, her little pink bow just perfectly askew on sausage roll curls.

Tom’s mood soured.

He looked around at the rankings that he had finally joined and briefly ruminated over the fact that he was the youngest of them.

Amelia Bones somehow made aubergine look severe, her expression stern and a far cry from the slightly drunken look on her face at the Inaugural Ball. To her left sat Mathilda Grimblehawk, the Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and to Bones' right sat Madam Thalia Edgecombe, Head of the Department of Magical Transportation.

Tom grimaced when Ludo Bagman, head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports leaned over the table, his hot breath washing over Tom’s face.

“We’ll be working closely then, Riddle. I look forward to it,” Bagman said, beaming at him.

Tom gave a thin-lipped smile. “Likewise.”

He turned over to regard Griselda Marchbanks, the head of the Department of Magical Education. He nodded at her and she smiled at him, wizened and old. Marchbanks had been his proctor for both his OWLs and NEWTs. It only served to put Tom in an even worse mood.

“Minister,” he said, finally greeting Scrimgeour. “Madame Umbridge.”

Umbridge giggled, cheeks turning pink. Tom summoned all the patience within himself not to roll his eyes and curse her dead.

Scrimgeour nodded, tightly at him. "Riddle," he greeted, voice low and gruff. But, there was something his lion face that appeared to be respect, like they were of an accord somehow.

Tom couldn’t wait to tear into him.

“Shall we begin?” Madam Umbridge tittered, though one seat was markedly still open.

Everyone nodded, even the mysterious head of the Department of Mysteries who was so heavily shrouded and warded, Tom could barely make out the lines of his face. He was sure that he could rip his identity out with Legilimency, but Harry _and_ his wife had told him that it was unnecessary to tear someone’s mind apart to learn their secrets.

“Very well,” Scrimgeour agreed.

The meeting began with a great amount of fanfare, Umbridge declaring the items on the agenda: the yearly budget, Scrimgeour’s political goals, expectations, and basic reports. Tom did very little listening, simply agreeing to a budget deadline by the end of the next week, and cataloguing Scrimgeour’s rehashed political goals, of which there was very little. The old man was quite content with maintaining the status quo, though his eyes sharpened when Umbridge slipped in a sly remark about regulatory legislation for creatures.

Just as Umbridge was listing out expectations, the door cracked open.

"Sorry, I'm late. I was only just dealing with an incident," Arnold Peasegood said. The Head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes was unlike some of the others in his department. A former liaison to the Auror Office as an Obliviator, he had retained the athleticism required of his former position.

Almost immediately, Scrimgeour relaxed even further in the presence of someone else that he recognized as his own, besides Bones.

“Mr. Peasegood—” Umbridge began, her shrill voice carefully disapproving.

“Ah, very good, Arnold. Very good,” Scrimgeour said, as if he were greeting an old friend.

Tom leaned forward in his chair. _Interesting_.

“Minister?” Umbridge demanded.

“Arnold will have a good reason for being late. He can report after Madame Bones,” Scrimgeour decided, leaning over the table to offer Peasegood a good shake. Peasegood took his hand, and gave an awkward smile, nodding politely around the table.

“But, we haven’t finished going over your expectations, sir,” Umbridge insisted. “The minutia—”

"These are all capable witches and wizards. I doubt they need my ‘expectations' hovering over their heads, as if I'm their schoolteacher," Scrimgeour said dismissively, not noticing the furious blotchy flush that spread over Umbridge's cheeks. Instead, Scrimgeour straightened, falling into his element. "Report, Bones."

Amelia Bones fell into a rhythm, the old Auror in her Summoned by Scrimgeour’s command.

“The Department of Magical Law Enforcement functions as it always does. I’ll have you know that your successor is doing an excellent job, though he still has some complaints about the place of Advocates in the DMLE,” Bones said, a rueful smile on her face.

Scrimgeour’s lips twitched though he looked humorless as always. “Don’t we all?”

“There’s been an uptick in the visits that Magical Law Enforcement Patrol had to make to various homes over domestic disputes—duels between sibling, mostly, but the hard numbers will, of course, be in your weekly briefing. I presume you’ll be receiving those,” Bones said.

“Actually, I’ll be reading them,” Umbridge tittered.

Bones looked surprised. “But, those are for the Minister’s eyes.”

“And his Undersecretary. I must be kept apprised of these things. And a thirty-inch long briefing from each department weekly? It’s ghastly. I’ll need to condense them, of course,” Umbridge insisted with a cheerful smile.

Bones cast a sharp glance at her former Head of the Auror Office, but he didn’t seem to find anything amiss.

“Very...very well,” Bones allowed. And then, she turned to Tom. “We’ll need to speak as well soon. The Wizengamot has asked that the British seats for the International Confederation be filled as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” Tom said. Saying very little gave Umbridge little material to twist to her own advantage.

“Peasegood?” Scrimgeour barked.

Peasegood straightened, looking regretful that he had allowed himself to relax in Scrimgeour’s presence.

“I’m late due to a magical mishap, as it may be. It required no less than three Obliviators, the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, and an emergency meeting of the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee,” Peasegood said, falling back into his chair, looking quite thoroughly exhausted.

Even so, Tom grew more interested.

“Merlin, what happened?” Bagman asked, looking at Peasegood with a wondrous expression.

“A young Muggleborn decided it was time to fight back against his childhood bullies. Of course, he’s only twelve, only a boy, and he hadn’t used his wand, so we couldn’t call in the Improper Use of Magic office, but it was a proper mess,” Peasegood said, shaking his head.

Tom could feel his own heart in his throat.

This was what it felt like when lightning struck, his nerve endings alight, something brilliant tugging at the corners of his mind.

“A Muggleborn? Accidental magic at twelve,” Tom hummed.

Peasegood nodded. If he seemed on edge, he would never be able to tell that it was _Tom_ that was doing it. So few could tell.

“It’s strange, isn’t it? But strong emotional episodes can turn up anyone’s magic, especially a kid that didn’t know how to control themselves from when they were young. That’s the difference between magically-reared kids and Muggle-raised. The magically-reared kids can control themselves a little better. Taught by a young age, learn by seeing too,” Peasegood said. His eyes widened when he realized what he’d said and he cast a look at Tom. “Not to say that just because _you’re_ Muggle-raised, I mean, you’re descending from Salazar Slytherin, but—”

Umbridge clapped her hands before another word could escape from Peasegood’s lips. He fell silent, his cheeks embarrassingly rosy as he cast his gaze back to his parchment, notes scrawled in a hurry.

“Thank you for that _delicious_ little morsel of your day, Mr. Peasegood,” Umbridge said, lips curling wide over her blunt teeth, “but please: a report on your department as a whole?”

Oh, Tom would take great pleasure in killing _her_.

* * *

 

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the ‘Chosen One’.”

Harry snorted as he jogged to the table, meeting his friends’ beaming faces. He practically threw himself into his chair and groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What’s that now?” he asked, as he looked over at them.

Hermione and Ron glanced at one another, before breaking a fit of giggles. Hermione slid over two magazines, Witch Weekly and Spellbound. Harry groaned as he looked at the glossy moving pictures. In the Witch Weekly spread depicting the fashion of the Inaugural Ball, he took up half-a-page, typical for them. The design and make of robes were listed in small letters, a glossy vapid image of himself smirking at the camera, twisting back and forth in its vanity. _That_ he could deal with.

The Spellbound cover was far more embarrassing. A mere tabloid, though a highly consumed one, a picture of Harry and Tom danced in and out of frame, both looking rather horribly wicked, glaring at one another.

_RIDDLE’S and his ‘CHOSEN ONE’ on THE OUTS?_ , it proudly proclaimed.

“Is it true?” Ron teased. “Are you and Riddle on the outs?”

Harry snorted. "He's not particularly pleased with me right now. Told me that I micromanaged him, as if he doesn't _need_ to be micromanaged.”

“It makes you sound like his wife. Why does _Spellbound_ always forget that he has a wife?” Hermione asked, a reproachful look directed at Harry like he was the one that dictated what went on the cover of the magazine.

“It’s a tabloid, Hermione. Did you expect truth out of it?” Harry retorted.

“Well, it’s making you look like...like a _scarlet_ woman,” Hermione hissed under her breath, eyes darting around worriedly.

“Hermione, no one thinks that I’m Riddle’s lover,” Harry laughed, shaking his head. “They just know I’m the gates to greatness or whatever.”

Hermione laughed at the very idea. Harry’s grin grew wider. Ron rolled his eyes and then his face lit up when his food popped in front of him. Hermione regarded it uncertainly.

"I made sure that this restaurant isn't serviced by elves that aren't being paid a fair wage. We should be fine," Hermione said slowly.

Ron and Harry exchanged amused looks. For a moment, Harry felt like he was back at Hogwarts, one of the few places that he would call home. It felt like sixth year, when everything had been normal, when he had been Seeker and Quidditch Captain, when he and his mother still were close and his father wasn’t mourning Harry’s loss of interest in being an Auror, when Ginny hadn’t hated him, and Harry hadn’t dreamed of blood on his hands. It felt like sixth year, when the air smelled like the lake and the Whomping Willow whistled through the air when someone dared to get too close.

This was before he had met Tom Riddle.

Harry flinched and redirected his gaze back to the menu. He had had a taste for shepherd’s pie and treacle tart, and suddenly, he wasn’t hungry. Except, it would look bad if he didn’t eat. He tapped his wand against the shepherd’s pie.

“Did you see Ginny published something in the Prophet this morning?” Ron asked in between mouthfuls of potatoes. “Mum sent everyone a letter going on about it. We’re having a celebration on Sunday about it. You’re invited, of course, Harry.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “I wish I could, but I’m drowning in work. I’m handling Riddle’s transition.”

Ron shrugged because he was used to Harry’s excuses, by now.

“You gave a good quote to Ginny,” Hermione complimented, her eyes shining with something like pride.

Like Ginny and Harry’s rivalry wasn’t wholly one-sided, based on conjecture. Something dark and wet like guilt swelled in the pit of Harry. He pushed it down with practiced ease, rolling his eyes as he looked over the menu.

“Or rather she tricked me out of good information,” Harry said. He shook his head, redirecting attention towards his two friends. “Now, tell me about how _you_ are. How are you both?”

“Not as _glamorous_ as you,” Ron teased.

"My job is definitely not glamorous. It's irritating. Riddle is irritating. But, really, how's the Auror Office? And the Office of House-Elf Relocation?" Harry asked. He leaned back in his seat and let their words wash over him as Hermione launched into a rant about the undercurrent of worry that was rising in her department as Umbridge maneuvered herself into power.

None of it was anything Harry hadn’t heard about the woman before. Umbridge was ruthlessly ambitious and bigoted, hiding it behind sugary sweet affectation. This was common knowledge amongst certain circles in the Ministry and no one knew it as well as Hermione. Umbridge had been the reason she’d launched her career in the first place, all starting with SPEW in their fourth year, after hearing about a particularly heinous piece of legislation that Umbridge had advocated for.

Harry was grateful when his own food finally appeared and he divided his attention between sating his returning appetite, Hermione's rant interspersed with complaints about the Advocate Office from Ron and perusing the offered Daily Prophet.

“And Blaise Zabini is _still_ a pain in the arse—” Ron was saying.

Harry hummed in agreement, flipping the page. He paused as he looked at the business section. He had never had the Business section of the Prophet laid out for Tom before. Penelope always laid out the news section, the editorial section, and the innovations section. Harry had meant to have Penelope subscribe to a few global papers, as well. But, that wasn’t what was on his mind. No, now Harry had the Business section in hand and a familiar name called to him.

“Witch Weekly is expanding?” Harry murmured.

Hermione snorted. “Is it really?” she asked, disdainful. Harry knew how little she thought of Witch Weekly outside of teasing him. It was very white and very bourgeoise.

“Circulation is expanding to the continent. And there’s...speculation about another branch being launched in Africa. Out of Morocco,” Harry said.

Hermione straightened, more interested now. “Really? So African witches?” she asked.

“It looks like it,” Harry murmured to himself. He looked up sharply. “How would they go about that? Do you need special...permits? Licensing permits, I mean?”

Hermione hummed. “I don’t know much about economic law, but it’s a British brand being expanded. It’s essentially an export, of sorts? I imagine that it would have to go through the International Magical Trading Standards Body. Just to make sure it’s above board.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed.

_That_ was under Tom’s jurisdiction.

* * *

The wide enchanted windows had lost their sun by the time Harry was finally alone in Tom’s office again. It was a nice office, even nicer than Tom’s last one, which he had enchanted to fit his needs. This office was naturally larger with tall picture windows that showed the London skyline and a large imposing desk, a high-backed leather chair behind it.

Tom sat it in like a king in his throne, and Harry hated it.

On the other side of the desk, Tom’s position made Harry feel as if he had to get on his knees and the kiss the hem of his liege’s robes, and he would  _never_ debase himself like that. He swallowed hard, the phantom pain at the back of his neck all over again. Harry took another step further into the office and then shut the door behind him, leaning back against the wood.

Tom hadn’t even looked up from his work, refusing to acknowledge Harry’s presence.

Harry tasted something sour on the back of his tongue.

“We must step up our efforts,” Tom finally said when he deemed Harry worthy of acknowledgment. “Before they become aware of our plans and put us six feet under.”

Harry hopped on the opportunity allowed to him. He was pleased with his choice of robes when Tom looked up at, and his gaze scanned over him, appreciatively. “It doesn’t matter who those idiots say. Scrimgeour is an old lion of a pride that never wishes to change. That is not _our_ M.O.,” Harry reassured him. He stepped forward. “They are few. What do they matter when we’ll have people looking to _you_?”

Tom seemed amused and he pushed himself back, putting space between his desk and his chair. Harry took the opportunity and carefully slid into Tom’s lap, throwing his legs over the man’s thighs, squirming to get comfortable. Tom gave him a look, a raised eyebrow, and Harry leaned forward, pressing his lips to the man’s pulse points.

“Is that so? You plan to have all eyes on me?” Tom murmured.

Harry hummed and looked up at him from under his eyelashes. "I'm sorry for micromanaging you," he whispered.

Tom didn’t look like he believed him. Harry didn’t care if he did.

“Very well,” Tom murmured, letting his head fall back and Harry kissed the other side of his neck, slowly, dragging his tongue over a prominent tendon, dragging a hand up to fiddle with the buttons at Tom’s collar. He pressed his fingers to the hollow of the man’s collarbone, and for a moment, he thought about whether or not Bellatrix had tasted it too.

Harry shoved the thought out of his head. He would not be wary or jealous of Bellatrix _Black._

“I’m sorry for micromanaging you. For giving Ginny Weasley a quote without thinking it over, but this...this can work,” Harry whispered, softly. He felt Tom’s arm finally wrap around his waist, a broad hand settling on his thigh—forgiven.

“Before any of your little plans can be put into action, we still are missing a glaring piece of information. The position of Undersecretary was filled due to Scrimgeour’s need to be a watchdog. But, someone planted the idea in his head,” Tom insisted.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "There are...the Malfoys were in the paper. Witch Weekly is expanding but the permits and licensing have to go through the Trading Standards Body."

Tom leaned back, staring at him. “That’s a bold accusation.”

“Do you trust them?” Harry asked, unable to keep the mocking edge out of his voice. Tom’s hand tightened and he pinched the tender flesh of Harry’s inner thigh, making him flinch.

“I trust no one,” Tom hissed. “I should tear Lucius’ mind—”

“No,” Harry murmured. “We can’t afford to alienate your wife.”

“There’s no love between my wife and Lucius Malfoy,” Tom drawled.

“But, your wife loves her sister very much, and her sister loves Lucius Malfoy,” Harry muttered to himself, he shook his head.

“Then, another way,” Tom murmured. He leaned in, tipping Harry’s head back, staring down at his lips. Harry shuddered as the man’s thumb dragged over his bottom lip. “What else do you know, lovely?”

“E-Euphie and her friends said something about international trade and the Dark families. We need to know about their dealings, but I don’t know…” Harry shivered when Tom pulled him further up and kissed him, dipping his tongue into his mouth just for a moment before pulling back. The man’s hands felt like hot brands against his skin, and Harry’s cock twitched.

Tom was forever amused by his easy arousal. “Allow me to focus on _that_ ,” Tom murmured because Harry was many things, but an interrogator was not one of them. Harry was both lion and snake, but mostly a shark, and he didn’t quite have a Slytherin’s venom yet.

“Okay,” Harry said softly as Tom cupped either side of his face, fingers wrapped around his neck, thumbs rubbing against the hard ridges of his cheekbones. He pulled him closer until their lips were breaths away from one another. “And then...after we know...all you have to do is wait and let them fight amongst one another. We’ll…”

Harry winced when he saw _something_ flash through Tom’s burgundy eyes.

“ _You’ll_ ,” Harry corrected, “be handed power on a plate.”

Tom looked down at him, utterly amused. “Is that so? And where will you be?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. _At your home, in your mind, at your side, in your marrow,_ he didn’t say.

“In your lap,” Harry purred.

Tom’s nostrils flared and he stood suddenly, grabbing Harry under his thighs and settling him on the edge of his desk. Harry yelped as Tom shoved him on his back and loomed over him. The man’s strong hands grabbed under Harry’s thighs, dragging him forward so that he could grind his own bulge against Harry’s. He leaned down, pressing them chest to chest.

Licking the shell of Harry’s ear, Tom hissed, “Perfect.”

* * *

Tom lingered in his office long past sunset. The open floor plan office had quieted down until the single scrawl of a single quill. Even Harry had long gone home, his head still churning with his little ideas for the dinner that would confirm his hunch. Tom would let him have his ideas. But, Tom was not afraid to sully his hands, to have blood in his ledger.

When he was sure that the night was late and that few would still be at the Ministry besides the maintenance staff and a few others, he left his office, taking his cloak as he moved swiftly towards the lift. He swung his cloak about his shoulders, pulling up his hood until he was cast in shadow. Waving the yew wand about his face, he cast Disillusionment Charms, warding his very being from being noticed no matter how close someone stepped.

Amelia Bones had a long memory, longer than most anyway. Few remembered what his magical potential had been before he became a politician. Tom was considered one of the most powerful wizards in Wizarding Britain, but it was always an afterthought. Tom would keep it that way.

For now.

The cool voice of a woman announced his arrival at, “Level Nine, the Department of Mysteries.”

The Department of Mysteries always made something like anticipation thrum in Tom’s veins. In the long black tile hallway, flanked with small torches of blue-white light, he could taste the strength of magic behind that plain black door. For some, it would be repellent, in the same way that some people found Tom repellent but could not name why. To Tom, it almost tasted like coming home.

He walked down the hall and pushed open the door, as if he belonged. When he emerged into the entrance room, he looked around. The dark marble floor resembled still waters, and the floating candles, all lit with pale blue flames cast the room in the ghostly light of an ocean during a storm. The room began to spin, meant to disorient, but Tom raised his wand and stilled it with just a passing thought.

He looked at the twelve handless doors. Tom proceeded without faltering through the first door and he looked around the Nature Room. He lingered as he stared at the forest that grew amuck, roots digging into the cracking black marble, and still the trees grew overhead. He walked threw the brush and found his target standing in a clearing, the only place where grass grew from the marble. Two of the tallest trees couldn’t be more opposite—a yew with a wide base, the branches fanning out, its limbs stripped bare of leaves, the tips tangled with the lush branches of a holly tree.

And then, in between them, where his target stood, was the sapling of an elder.

“Hello,” Tom called.

The Unspeakable stiffened, his back turned towards him, but he didn’t turn to look at him, not just yet. He was shaking, almost as if he were afraid.

“I have decided that the shadows are tired of me and me of it,” Tom continued. The Unspeakable made a huffed sound of laughter, edged with a madness that Tom had always found amusing. “Would you like to stop pretending you don’t know me? I have need of you.”

And finally, Barty Crouch Jr. turned. With a smile, he walked forward, staring at his mentor with an unholy light in his eyes. He was practically shaking in his excitement.

“Truly?” he rasped.

“There is a greater purpose that lies ahead of you, Barty Crouch Jr. One that does not involve trying to recreate fairytales,” Tom with a disdainful look cast towards the elder tree.

Barty did not seem to react to the slight. Instead, he grabbed Tom’s hand and fell to his knees, bending his head over it.

And proudly, he proclaimed, “I live to serve you, my Lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] House of Cards, Season 2, Episode 2
> 
> [2] http://wizardhistory.tumblr.com/post/106651749244/how-long-would-one-study-at-puidreach-would
> 
> \------------------  
> Hey, y'all. It's been a while, but I haven't stopped! I hope you like this chapter and please, please comment! I really love this story but it's one of the harder ones to write because it's much darker, and while I'm in the process of writing another light-hearted Tomarry AU, in the vein of Diagnosis, I'm focusing on this and the Fairest Saga, so PLEASE leave kudos and comment!

**Author's Note:**

> Here begins my new AU of a mish-mosh Scandal, House of Cards, and any political event that I can make magical, I suppose. If you’re coming here from Diagnosis, welcome back after finishing that epilogue hahaha. If you’re coming from elsewhere, well, welcome anew. This story will NOT be updated as often as Diagnosis, I’m afraid. It will be probably once a month, if that, because I’m focusing on original fiction. But, I really just wanted to get this out there.
> 
> If anyone wants to see my Pinterest board of inspiration, here’s the link: https://pin.it/zgevt47c5j5ecu
> 
> So, I hope you stick around!
> 
> ENDING QUOTE: House of Cards, season 2, episode 9


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